THE  DARK  MOTHER 


BOOKS  BY  WALDO  FRANK 

THE  UNWELCOME  MAN 
THE  DARK  MOTHER 

THE  ART  OF  THE  VIEUX  COLOMBIER 
OUR  AMERICA 


•THE 
DARK    MOTHER 


A  NOVEL 


BY 

WALDO  FRANK 


She  is  Flesh  moving  through  Flesh 
She  is  Spirit 


BONI    AND    LIVERIGHT 
PUBLISHERS  NEW    YORK 


Copyright,  1920,  by 
BONI  &  LIVERIGHT,  INC. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


TO 

MARGARET  NAUMBURG 


6C2754 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGB 

I I 

II 24 

III 29 

IV 49 

V 102 

VI 123 

VII 162 

VIII 175 

K 197 


XI     , 

XII    

26"? 

XIII     , 

XIV 

THE   DARK  MOTHER 


THE  air  moved  toward  the  mountain:  the  waves  and 
the  trees  and  the  earth  moved  toward  the  mountain. 
All  the  world  moved  gently  upward  toward  the  moun 
tain  like  a  Tide.  The  mountain  moved  downward  toward 
earth,  spilled  water  and  spread  trees  in  it. 

A  full-grown  boy  sat  low  in  a  canoe  with  his  hands  in 
the  sharp  water,  and  let  it  drift  with  the  wind.  The  wind 
ceased:  the  wavelets  stopped  marching  up  the  backs  of  his 
hands,  there  was  silence.  The  boy  lay  back  in  his  craft  that 
lay  in  the  water,  sleepily  and  tamed  by  the  wind's  absence. 
His  mind  drowsed  but  in  its  sleep  walked  forth.  The  moun 
tain  became  a  mood  of  contemplation.  A  cloud  rose  over  the 
mountain  faster  than  the  moon.  There  was  to  be  no  moon. 

Away  on  all  sides  of  the  lake  woods  murmured.  The  lake 
was  silence  in  wide  swaying  murmur.  The  woods  rolled  purple 
and  tumbled  black:  they  mounted  atop  each  other  to  stark 
eminence  against  the  sky:  they  huddled  downward  into  breath 
ing  valleys  and  the  suspense  of  meadows  lying  with  wide 
eyes.  The  woods  were  shredded  by  noisy  rivers:  they  stumbled 
over  rocks,  fell  away. 

The  sky  dipped  and  the  earth  found  it:  the  sky  too  leaped. 
Leaping  away  it  took  the  landside  with  it.  All  that  was  left 
of  trees  and  water  and  wide-eyed  fields  was  haze,  like  a  long 
ing  vision. 


2  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

Within  this  lay  the  boy  who  was  nearly  a  man.  He  was  the 
tiny  thrust  of  a  flaming  outer  world  on  the  lake's  hard  luster. 
He  was  immersed  in  depths  that  made  him  see  new  stars. 

He  lifted  himself  and  began  to  paddle.  He  paddled  with, 
clear  brow  against  night. 

The  canoe  lurched  a-nd  veered.  The  water  swirled.  A  dis- 
tar.t  'bird  fliitterecV'  ( rbrii  bracken.  A  pad  of  lilies  went  cutting 
in  his  path;  a,  brapch  bfqke  off.  A  bat  whizzed  in  the  dark 
above  Lisiej/es/u  ..i  ,v<His'lmind  awaked  in  the  disparate  tur 
bulence.  It  had  gone  forth  asleep  to  the  world.  It  returned 
awake  to  its  little  human  chamber.  He  saw  near  things. 

His  canoe  was  still.  His  eyes  shot  on.  A  grove  of  trees  was 
sheer  against  the  sky  and  his  eyes.  .  .  .  Through  the  calm 
passion  of  the  summer  lake  with  its  clinging  marges,  through 
the  cool  strong  lake  tossing  its  mystery  in  waves  upon  the 
shore  that  loved  it,  a  grove  of  trees  was  sheer  against  the 
sky  and  his  eyes.  A  grove  of  trees  was  a  crown  on  the  sharp 
brow  of  earth.  A  grove  of  trees  was  black  with  a  great  depth. 

Their  great  black  depth  was  a  mouth:  a  silent  mouth  full 
of  sound.  They  stood  there  still  above  the  lake  and  moved 
into  his  mood.  They  sucked  him. 

He  found  he  thought  of  them  as  one.  He  found  he  had  long 
been  still  in  his  canoe,  measuring  himself  against  them. 

There  was  within  them  something  hidden  that  sent  him 
forward;  something  hidden  that  drove  him  off.  He  was 
balanced. 

The  lake  was  light  and  cool  and  open.  In  the  trees  was 
great  heat,  great  closeness.  The  boy  who  was  nearly  a  man 
felt  he  was  naked  and  that  the  trees  would  clothe  him:  he 
had  delight  of  his  nakedness  as  if  he  had  thrown  off  some 
bondage. 

He  looked  about  him,  and  the  trees  were  in  his  eyes: 
wherever  he  looked  they  were,  like  a  love  that  a  man  carried 
with  him.  He  saw  the  mountain  loom,  the  dense  cloud  over 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  3 

the  world:  he  felt  how  strange  was  this  lake  on  which  he  was 
uplifted  into  a  naked  world.  He  let  his  eyes  fall  back  to  the 
trees — his  body  all  that  time  had  fronted  them — and  under 
stood  how  it  would  be  a  terrible  joy  to  be  consumed  by  them. 

The  trees  swayed.    They  were  arms  with  eloquent  sad  hands. 

He  struck  the  water  with  his  paddle.  His  canoe  came  alive. 
He  was  going  to  plunge  into  the  trees.  .  .  . 

A  part  of  him  laughed  for  they  were  only  trees. 

The  trees  began  to  cut  off  his  sense  of  the  sky.  They 
breathed  deep  ...  no  part  of  him  laughed.  He  glided.  The 
trees  opened  their  arms.  Leaves  trembled  and  danced  faintly. 
The  world  of  sky  swooned  out:  the  world  of  black  trees  swept 
his  being. 

The  water  that  bore  him  whispered  in  language  of  the 
trees.  It  was  not  of  the  lake.  His  canoe  grated  against  a 
log,  it  nudged  into  a  mound  of  moss.  It  shivered  back,  it 
stopped.  A  slow  dark  singing.  .  .  . 

The  boy  drew  his  shoulders  close  and  was  afraid,  and  was 
afraid  even  to  breathe,  for  what  was  he  breathing?  He  was 
fast  inclosed  in  a  throbbing  praying  Thing. 

His  breath  beat  against  his  eyes.  He  drove  his  eyes  to  look 
into  the  trees.  He  saw  chestnut-oak,  basswood,  willow.  A 
circlet  of  stone  tinkled  in  the  pool  of  a  log.  Trees  knotted 
over  the  earth,  gnarled  upward  toward  light.  Young  birch 
were  a  white  chatter  leading  into  the  silence  of  forest.  He 
saw  trees.  He  saw  through  trees.  He  saw  black  trees  flooded 
like  sunny  windows  with  a  world  beyond  and  within  them. 
...  He  saw  what  stiffened  him,  stopped  his  blood.  A  face. 
The  face  of  a  life.  He  saw  the  white  face  of  a  man.  .  .  . 

Chairs  were  thick  on  the  porch:  thicker  still  was  the  talking. 
David  alone  was  silent.  He  was  the  sole  ear  in  a  close  texture 
of  words.  And  it  was  raining.  The  guests  at  The  Villa  were 
profuse  in  lamentation  of  the  weather.  "What  a  day ! "  "Won't 


4  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

it  ever  stop?"  they  said.  They  were  insincere.  They  were 
glad  of  the  rain.  It  held  them  close  together  on  the  porch 
where  they  could  talk,  where  there  was  much  warm  human 
flesh  to  talk  to.  David  did  not  need  to  listen.  He  sat  very 
still  and  looked  beyond  the  porch.  The  Villa  stood  on  the 
brow  of  a  hill  above  the  lake.  His  eyes  fell  down  a  flaunting 
cornpatch;  the  carriage  road  dawdled  within  low  shrubs  and 
the  lake  cut  out,  lead-blue  and  harried  by  the  rain.  The  trees 
were  gray  with  the  rain,  the  tall  grasses  of  August  gleamed  with 
it  and  swayed.  David  saw  it  sweep,  like  a  phalanx,  over  the 
water.  His  senses  dozed  in  the  rain  and  the  voices.  The 
harsh  note  of  a  chair  creaking  was  a  rare  break  in  cadence. 
Over  the  eaves  of  the  porch,  the  drops  gathered  and  broke 
in  a  quick  flurry;  there  was  a  pause  while  the  drops  held, 
swelled,  burst  again.  He  saw  beyond  the  two  great  elms 
flanking  the  house  how  the  clouds  were  a  veering  maze  of 
mist,  how  the  lighter  gray  swerved  down  from  the  dank  mass 
and  filmed  in  shivering  water  toward  the  lake.  He  saw  in 
the  pent  gray  faces  of  his  neighbors  how  the  words  gathered 
and  broke  forth. 

This  passion  of  talk  was  a  new  element  to  David.  He 
sensed  its  kinship  with  the  play  of  the  clouds  which  he  knew. 
His  mother  had  been  silent.  In  Mr.  Devitt's  shop  where  he 
worked,  the  boys  spoke  when  there  was  need.  He  had  heard 
girls  chatter  chiefly  from  a  distance.  He  dwelt  on  two  planes. 
Part  of  him  moved  beyond  the  hotel  porch.  It  shared  the 
drowse  of  nature,  it  was  drenched  in  the  warm  rain.  The  trees 
were  subdued  and  satisfied.  They  were  like  women  after 
words  of  love,  they  were  like  women  glowing  while  love  worked 
on  them.  The  ground  was  still.  When  the  sun  came  the 
ground  of  the  woods  rang  with  life.  Now  there  was  quiet. 
David  thought  of  this:  how  the  earth  watched  the  trees,  was 
slumberous  and  drank  its  potion.  This  was  the  forward  part 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  5 

of  David.  In  the  back  of  his  mind  was  the  porch  and  the 
parlor  where  the  children  had  been  banished. 

Each  of  these  human  beings  seemed  to  have  a  passion:  it 
was  the  burden  of  all  their  words.  They  could  talk  nothing 
else.  They  could  partake  of  nothing  foreign  to  their  passion. 
If  they  could  have  changed  their  pasts,  they  might  have  spoken 
a  different  thing.  David,  relaxed  in  the  play  of  words  and 
rain,  saw  how  the  faces  of  these  men  and  women  were  stamps 
of  life:  how  life  had  branded  each  as  with  a  burning  iron. 

He  thought  of  his  mother.  Did  she  have  a  mark  and  a 
passion  also?  David  was  out  of  the  group  on  the  porch.  Its 
passionate  tourneys  of  talk  were  far  away  and  yet  their  char 
acter  was  sharp.  When  he  awoke  in  the  morning  in  the  room 
that  had  always  been  his — he  would  never  see  it  again — he  sat 
up  in  his  bed,  he  looked  about  at  the  strange  salience  of  fa 
miliar  objects.  The  yellow  oak  bureau,  the  picture  of  Wash 
ington  crossing  the  Delaware,  his  own  black  boots,  his  own 
gray  cap  stood  forth  with  an  uncanny  clearness  as  if  he  had 
come  from  a  two-dimensioned  world.  This  feeling  passed. 
Now  here  it  was  again,  as  he  listened  to  words.  He  had  it 
watching  away  at  the  drenched  woods  and  the  lake.  His  neigh 
bors,  tense  in  their  chairs,  took  on  the  conciseness  of  auto 
mata.  He  felt  them  pour  into  words,  he  felt  the  unease  of 
their  restraint  when  they  were  interrupted,  forced  to  listen 
to  another,  he  felt  how  they  crouched  in  these  forced  silences 
and  hurled  themselves  back  into  speech  at  the  first  hint  of 
pause.  In  silence  they  lay  flopping  like  fishes  out  of  water. 
Words  were  their  element.  .  .  .  And  David  saw  the  breathing 
of  the  woods,  the  warm  comfort  of  trees  that  had  grown  up 
together  and  knew  their  silences.  They  were  clothed  in  a 
sweet  sanctity  of  resolve  and  repose.  They  took  the  rain 
with  faint  bowed  heads.  They  were  alive,  in  David,  and  very 
thoughtful.  For  suddenly  they  too  were  remote.  They  too 
had  the  sharpness  of  the  completely  strange. 


6  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

David  had  slipt  from  the  reality  of  men  and  nature.  He 
thought  of  his  mother.  All  life  about  him  was  marvelous  and 
clear  like  the  objects  in  his  old  room — he  would  never  see 
it  again — when  he  saw  them  with  eyes  still  full  of  his  night's 
dream. 

She  had  died  that  May.  Until  a  few  years  ago  she  had 
talked  a  great  deal  with  him.  Their  talk  dwindled.  The  open 
space  of  their  few  words  became  an  easeful  place  for  him  to 
lie  in.  He  withdrew  more  and  more  to  it.  She  died  almost 
silent. 

They  lived  together  in  the  white  house  where  he  remembered 
his  father.  His  father  left  his  violin,  left  always  David's  pic 
ture  of  him.  A  heavy  and  loose  man,  ashift  in  his  clothes, 
with  long  dead  hands  that  came  alive,  at  times,  playing  gigues. 
Then  his  feet  danced  along  and  his  mother's  eyes  were  rigid. 
David  played  his  violin  when  it  was  all  of  him  left.  He 
looked  at  his  hands  and  began  to  play  out  of  tune.  His 
mother  had  no  ear  for  that.  She  said:  "Why  do  ye  stop, 
dear?"  "Mother,"  he  said,  "aren't  my  hands  fat  and  child 
ish?" 

His  father  died  ten  years  before.  He  remembered  storms 
of  temper  and  showers  of  affection:  he  remembered  pourings 
of  words.  He  could  catch  no  memory  of  his  mother's  words 
woven  into  his  father's.  His  father's  voice  and  his  mother's 
seemed  separate  always.  He  wondered  what  this  meant. 
They  had  lived  in  Boston,  his  father  had  been  well  on  his  way 
to  fame.  There  he  was  born.  They  left  and  their  leaving 
was  woven  into  the  contrast  of  his  father's  humors  and  wild 
words,  his  mother's  rigid  eyes.  Adolph  Markand  had  stopped 
performing  with  his  violin.  He  became  a  teacher.  Little  girls 
and  young  women  rang  the  bell  and  were  secreted  with  him  in 
the  parlor.  Sometimes  no  music  came  through  ^ie  hour.  His 
mother  grew  nervous  in  the  kitchen.  She  dropped  a  dish.  She 
said:  "David,  go  into  the  parlor  and  fetch  my  sewing."  He 


THE  DARK  MOTHER 


|  stepped  to  the  door.     "Wait,"  she  called.     "Don't  bother, 
dear.  .  .  ."  In  a  rasping  voice:   "Why  don't  you  go  out  in 
e  garden  and  play?" 

His  father  died.  A  mighty  man  who  was  an  uncle  came 
[up  to  them  from  New  York;  Anthony  Deane,  a  man  within  a 
jwhite  waistcoat,  under  a  stove-pipe  hat,  a  man  who  was  his 
Smother's  brother.  He  said  to  David  with  a  god-like  unction: 
"You  and  Mamma  will  stay  on  at  the  house,  never  fear,  my 
lad."  He  patted  his  cheek  with  two  round  ringed  fingers. 

The  funeral  was  a  mellow  flat  in  his  mind;  one  moment, 
like  a  hill  that  stood  sheer  above  the  field  where  he  lounged 
)n  Sundays,  marked  it  forever.    His  mother  was  dry-eyed  and 
was  his  uncle.     They  were  busy  and  pious,  they  did  not 
[jweep.     Yet  his  mother  was  sad.     He  was  sure  of  that.     He 
Felt  a  terror  in  her  lack  of  tears — a  portentous  suffering  beyond 
the  relief  of  his  own.     They  stood  over  the  grave  and  the 
>ody  went  down.     He   could   not  keep  his    eyes  from   his 
lother.    He  said  to  himself:  "Look  at  that  box,  that's  father; 
lat's  the  last  time  you  will  see  him."    It  was  no  help.    His 
lother  was  beautiful  and  tall,  her  black  dress  was  a  delight, 
[e  loved  her  black  dress  that  showed  off  so  well  the  soft  white 
inds,  the  pale  smooth  cheek,  the  warm  heaving  of  her  bosom ! 
[er  eyes  were  large  brown  eyes  and  they  were  dry  and  there 
sun  in  them:  she  did  not  fend  them.    Her  eyes  looked  at 
the  coffin  of  her  husband,  rigidly  as  if  he  were  dancing  in- 
tead  of  still  and  hidden  in  a  box.    Then  they  turned  away: 
ds  mother  looked  at  the  girl  who  stood  across  from  her,  near 
>avid.    A  soft  round  girl  named  Letty  who  had  red  eyes  now 
id   was  his   father's  pupil.     The  deep   commotion   of   his 
lother's  breast  was  gone:  she  threw  forth  her  hands,  palms 
butward  as  if^here  was  some  one  against  her.     Tears  came. 
fiis  mother  sobbed  and  covered  her  face,  she  almost  fell.    His 
incle  led  her  away.    She  wept  a  long  time. 


8  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

The  next  morning,  again,  her  eyes  were  dry  and  her  breast 
that  he  so  loved  again  moved  deeply. 

That  was  many  years  ago  when  he  was  ten,  and  he  had 
lived  close  and  alone  with  her  for  ten  more  years.  His  mother 
did  not  breath  at  peace,  like  other  women — like  other  people. 
David's  mind  flew  to  another  happening  and  stayed  there.  .  .  . 

A  girl  came  in  with  her  machine,  it  was  the  first  year  he 
worked  in  Mr.  Devitt's  bicycle  shop,  now  he  remembered. 
He  must  have  been  fifteen.  He  was  already  tall,  the  full  golden 
down  on  his  cheeks  and  lips  disturbed  and  inspired  him.  It. 
was  a  splendid  brand-new  Eagle  with  one  of  those  coaster- 
brakes  that  seemed  a  miracle  even  after  he  had  learned  to 
put  them  on,  take  them  apart.  Mr.  Devitt  and  Joe  were  in 
the  shop,  but  she  stayed  there  in  the  door,  balancing  a  mo 
ment,  and  came  to  him  straight.  The  front  tire  was  punctured. 
"This  won't  take  but  five  minutes,"  he  said.  "You'll  wait, 
won't  you?"  No  one  in  the  shop  noticed  how  she  stood  there 
before  him,  with  her  feet  slightly  apart  and  firm,  and  in  some 
way  made  him  look  at  her — as  he  had  never  cared  to  look  at 
a  girl.  His  heart  beat  fast:  he  saw  her.  She  had  a  soft  throat, 
she  had  bright  hair,  her  body  was  slender  music.  She  said: 
"I'm  in  a  hurry:  couldn't  you  bring  it*  to  me?  My  name  is 
Miss  Marshall.  You  know — Elm  Street.'7  It  was  near  the 
time  for  going  home.  He  thought  that  he  did  not  wish  to  take 
it,  but  it  was  near  the  time  for  going  home  and  he  could  not 
say  no.  He  went.  She  came  slowly  to  meet  him:  she  took 
the  wheel  from  him  very  fast  and  leaned  it  against  the  tall 
grape  arbor.  She  paid  him  his  money.  He  moved  away; 
she  looked  at  him;  and  her  eyes  held  him.  He  stood  there 
fixed;  her  eyes  went  up  and  down  the  arbor  and  the  garden. 
Up  and  about  went  her  eyes  and  their  meaning  was  clear: 
they  could  not  be  seen.  She  stepped  close.  She  placed  her 
hands  on  his  shoulders,  her  eyes  were  now  under  his.  David 
looked  down  from  her  eyes  to  her  soft  still  bare  throat — to 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  9 

her  body.  He  could  see  her  little  breasts  like  apples  within 
her  blouse.  He  saw  that  they  were  quiet.  They  were  round 
and  hard  and  quiet.  A  strange  will  crept  over  David :  that  they 
should  be  soft  and  heaving.  For  this  reason  his  arms  went 
over  her,  he  kissed  her  mouth. 

He  held  her  at  his  arm's  length.  Her  face  was  white.  There 
was  mist  over  her  look  at  him.  Her  breasts  moved!  Deep,- 
hard  she  breathed  and  her  breasts  moved!  He  was  afraid. 
He  wanted  to  get  away.  He  was  a  little  sick  with  what  he  had 
done.  He  left  her.  He  did  not  kiss  her  again.  .  .  . 

The  guests  raced,  the  woods  brooded,  near  David  sitting 
with  his  past.  The  rain  let  up. 

Trees  rose  higher  and  more  sheer,  they  were  black  in  the 
sky.  A  faint  wave  of  air  came  upon  the  grasses:  they  were  a 
film  of  green  and  yellow  and  purple  over  the  ground.  The 
grasses  flowed  into  the  air  where  the  heavy  rain  had  been. 
David  saw  how  the  sky  changed.  It  was  farther  away  and 
solid,  no  longer  shredding  in  mist. 

Nature  was  near  to  him  once  more.  The  talk  was  near 
and  spreading.  He  began  to  understand  the  words  that  went 
endlessly  on.  It  was  like  being  in  the  rain,  face  up,  where  he 
could  see  the  separate  drops  strike  him,  and  the  full  sweep 
of  the  rain  was  lost. 

He  was  afraid  of  these  pouring  men  and  women.  He  was 
afraid  they  would  ask  him  to  join  in  their  words.  What 
would  he  say?  He  had  no  theme  and  no  passion.  "I  guess 
I  am  pretty  stupid."  He  was  relieved,  confessing  this  to 
himself.  He  was  soft  and  vague;  he  did  not  seem  to  mind. 
Almost  he  seemed  glad.  Something  made  him  know  in  these 
sharp  stamps  of  life  the  consequence  of  hardenings  and  ex 
clusions. 

What  was  it  he  had  felt  in  the  fields  near  his  town  when 
he  lazed?  He  had  felt  a  great  and  moving  Breath.  He  had 
felt  himself  astir  upon  a  Breath,  as  he  saw  a  hair  on  his 


io  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

chest  lift  when  he  breathed.  Life?  It  had  no  center,  no 
form,  no  way.  It  was  a  breathing  rondure  that  fed  him. 

Below  on  the  road  and  below  the  corn  came  a  man.  His 
head  and  shoulders  were  slight,  moving  up. 

The  eyes  of  David  were  veiled.  His  thoughts  were  color. 
He  felt  no  form  to  his  thoughts,  no  form  to  himself.  He  sat 
in  a  water  of  slow  colors.  He  sat  as  if  he  lay.  He  was  quiet, 
enfolded.  These  waters  that  held  him  were  a  tide.  They 
were  moveless  and  yet  they  were  pointing.  They  seemed  to 
be  going  somewhere  and  to  have  come  from  somewhere  and 
to  be  going  whence  they  had  come.  David  said  to  himself: 

"How  funny!  I've  forgotten  all  about  last  night.  That  is 
funny!" 

He  thought  of  last  night.  .  .  .  Brief  strained  words  within 
the  trees  with  a  strange  sharp  man.  Angular  words — and 
their  canoes  rippling  smoothly  out,  side  by  side.  Undimen- 
sioned  like  a  dream's  end,  yet  sharp,  was  their  emerging  from 
the  trees.  The  lake  was  suddenly  solid,  mounting  toward  its 
end  where  the  village  burned  a  patch  in  the  night — they 
paddling  together  toward  it.  ...  A  different  world;  an  ad 
venture.  Yet  he  knew  that,  the  colors  which  were  his  thoughts 
and  in  which  he  had  lain  had  not  changed. 

The  man  on  the  road  was  near.  He  saw  the  man  of  last 
night. 

All  new  and  the  same:  a  man  cutting  upon  him  through 
that  night,  these  guests,  these  clouds.  "Rain's  stopped. 
Time  for  a  walk." 

A  boy,  nineteen  and  tall,  with  loose  light  hair  and  features 
warm  against  the  gray  of  the  day — a  young  man,  older  by 
some  years,  quick-gaited,  short — followed  the  road  that  fol 
lowed  the  shore  of  the  lake. 

They  were  silent.  David  clutched  a  strand  of  grass  and 
put  it  in  his  mouth. 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  n 

"My  name  is  Rennard — Thomas  Rennard,"  he  heard. 

"Mine  is  David  Markand." 

"I  come  from  New  York.  .  .  .  Are  you  going  to  New 
York?" 

"Yes."    David  wanted  to  say:  "How  did  you  know?" 

"We  hadn't  much  to  say — last  night — to  each  other,  did 
we?"  Thomas  Rennard  laughed.  They  looked  at  each  other. 

"Have  you  ever  been  to  New  York?" 

"No,  ...  I  have  an  uncle  there." 

"You're  going  to  work  for  him?" 

How  did  he  know  these  things?     "Yes." 

"A  bit  of  a  loaf  before  you  buckle  down?" 

"He  has  a  big  tobacco  business,"  said  David.  If  he  did 
not  wonder,  if  he  took  this  walk  as  the  natural  pleasant 
stretching  of  his  legs,  he  was  at  ease. 

"Suppose  you  don't  like  it?" 

David  was  silent. 

"Suppose  you  don't  like  it — will  you  quit?" 

"Why — I  guess  so!"  It  had  never  occurred  to  David.  Life 
was  life.  One  did  not  question  if  one  liked  it.  The  air  where 
one  was  one  breathed. 

"Be  sure  of  that!"  Tom  Rennard 's  words  came  warm. 
"That  is  important.  Hold  on  to  your  right  to  choose.  Hold 
on  to  your  right  not  to  choose.  ...  I  never  really  had  that 
right." 

David  was  silent  again.  He  walked  with  a  man,  he  walked 
with  a  world  he  had  no  sense  of.  But  his  legs  went  easy. 

"I'm  a  lawyer,"  said  Tom  Rennard. 

"Didn't  you  choose  that?" 

"No  ...  I  thought  I  had.  I  dreamed  of  being  a  lawyer. 
I  fooled  myself." 

"What  did  you  want  to  be?" 

"I  don't  know  that  either." 

He  said  "either."     Why  did  he  say  "either"?     It  was  true. 


12  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

What  did  he  know?  David  spoke  with  an  elation  like  a  re 
lease. 

"I  don't  know,  either.  Really  I  don't.  You  see — Uncle — 
Mr.  Deane — he  came  up  when  mother  died.  I  remember 
what  he  said.  'Want  to  come  to  the  big  City  and  work  for 
me?'  he  said.  'I  don't  know.'  I  think  I  answered  that.  Yes 
— I  did.  I  knew  I'd  said  the  wrong  thing.  My  uncle  sort 
of  smiled.  'This  is  no  work  for  you.'  I  was  at  the  shop. 
'Will  you  come?'  'All  right/  'Better  try/  said  uncle.  'Your 
first  years  won't  bind  you — nor  me.'  That  was  all." 

"Don't  let  them  bind  you." 

"But  it  wasn't  like  that,  when  you  started  to  be  a  lawyer?" 

"No,  it  wasn't  like  that,"  Tom  Rennard  smiled.  "I  wasn't 
born  in  New  York,  either."  What  was  there  David  felt  again 
in  the  word  "either"?  "My  sister  and  I  came  East  from 
Ohio." 

"And  you  went  to  college  and  studied  to  be  a  lawyer?" 

"Not  college.  Law-school  at  night.  Musty  long  rooms 
under  dim  gas  jets.  Days  I  was  several  things.  I  sold  pen 
knives  for  a  time.  I  was  a  waiter  in  cheap  restaurants.  I 
worked  in  department  stores.  My  sister  earned  next  to 
nothing,  then.  At  times,  we  shared  one  room." 

David  tramped  on,  limbs  free.  At  his  shoulder  the  lake 
and  the  farther  shore.  The  mist  was  lifted  from  the  day. 
The  mist  was  concentrate  in  clouds.  The  day  and  the  water 
were  clear.  He  felt  this  man  beside  him,  sharp  and  strange, 
in  the  new  lucid  air. 

His  sharpness  seemed  right  for  the  city.  This  man  was  a 
city  man.  David  did  not  think  there  could  be  dim  things — 
dim  lights — ever  in  New  York.  Yet  that  picture  he  had  of 
the  law-school. 

" — an  ideal  setting,  don't  you  think?"  Tom  said,  "for  learn 
ing  the  law?" 

David  walked  with  the  picture  of  Mr.  Devitt's  shop.     He 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  13 

loved  it.  ...  A  long  low  dirty  room  behind  the  bike-store. 
He  went  in.  It  smelt  of  leather  and  glue  and  oil,  of  rubber 
and  sweat.  That  smell  left  him.  A  gas  jet  burned  in  the 
piping  that  cut  down  crooked  from  the  crumbled  plaster. 
The  dim  noise  of  the  place  seemed  almost  to  stop  his  pores. 
He  looked  at  the  gray  refuse  through  the  dirty  window  and 
did  not  like  where  he  was.  He  went  to  work.  His  hands 
worked.  His  mind  took  on  a  leisurely  gait  with  the  room, 
took  along  with  it  the  way  of  his  hands.  He  liked  where  he 
was.  His  mind  and  his  hands  were  clear  of  the  room,  moving 
with  it.  It  was  fun.  When  he  tired,  he  stopped.  ...  A  city 
man.  He  was  going  to  the  city.  A  city  man  had  looked  at 
him  and  known  he  was  going  to  the  city! 

"I  wonder — will  I  ever  be  a  New  Yorker." 

Tom  Rennard  laughed.     "Soon  enough.     Too  soon." 

"I  was  born  in  Boston!" 

Tom  looked  at  him:  "You  are  not  like  Boston,"  he  said. 
" — old  Boston,  perhaps: — a  Boston  that  was  really  a  field 
compressed,  a  gathering  place  of  fields  and  of  field-folks:  a 
Boston  I  dream  of — where  Thoreau  came." 

Still  David  was  elate,  not  understanding.  His  legs  and  his 
arms  were  very  free.  He  felt,  walking  beside  this  clear  quick 
man,  a  cloudiness  about  himself.  He  had  a  distant  sense  of 
a  David  Markand:  his  legs  exhaled  a  smell  of  rubber  and 
grease,  his  shoulders  pushed  along  like  a  slow  hill  rising  to 
the  horizon,  his  head  moved  faintly  like  a  tree.  If  this  dis- 
stant  sense  came  nearer  he  would  laugh.  He  felt  he  was  not 
a  city  man,  even  though  he  was  born  in  Boston.  He  stopped. 
He  stooped  and  pulled  a  clump  of  dripping  moss  with  his 
two  hands.  He  threw  it  away.  He  turned  his  muddy  palms 
toward  Tom. 

"Look,"  he  said. 

"Yes— I  understand." 

David  wiped  his  hands  on  his  trouser  seat.    Tom  laughed. 


14  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

"I    don't    understand,"    said    David.      Then    he    blushed. 

They  walked  in  silence.  David  found  that  walking  so  in 
silence  beside  this  man  he  could  think:  his  mind  took  form: 
he  felt  he  could  direct  it.  He  said  to  himself:  "I  must  think 
.  .  .  about  the  city.  .  .  .  That  is  important.  I  am  going 
there  soon.  I  don't  know  what  to  think.  .  .  .  What  do  I 
know?" 

He  said  aloud:  "What  was  it  you  said  you  understood?" 

"How  you  feel— a  little." 

"Why?" 

"I  also  came  to  New  York,  a  first  time — once." 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  said  David.  .  .  . 

A  faint  trail  lagged  over  root  and  moss  through  trees  to 
a  grove  of  locusts — a  wide  clearing  with  splotches  of  gold  on 
blue  grass.  A  girl  stood  before  a  tree-stump.  It  was  round 
and  quite  smoothly  cut.  On  it,  at  the  height  of  her  waist, 
was  a  clay  model — reddish  rich  clay — and  the  crude  hint  com 
ing  out  of  a  mother  with  a  child. 

The  girl  was  plain  and  angular.  She  wore  a  drab  brown 
smock.  Her  coarse  skirt  was  high  above  mannish  boots.  Her 
sleeves  were  rolled  to  the  elbows  and  the  muscles  of  her  thin 
arms  were  eager  and  tense.  She  stopped  and  wiped  the  stray 
brown  hair  from  her  eyes,  looking  at  her  work.  A  twig 
snapped:  instinctively  she  fended  her  arm  over  the  clay  figure: 
she  turned.  Tom  Rennard  was  there. 

He  sat  on  a  rock.     "God,  that's  lovely,  Cornelia!" 

She  came  beside  her  brother.     They  looked  at  her  work. 

"The  rain  won't  spare  this  one,  any  more  than  the  others." 

"Even  in  that  tree  hole?" 

"You  know,  Tom,  the  squirrels  will  play  heck  with  it  there." 

Tom  smiled.  "Why  not  bring  it  home  and  put  it  in  the 
parlor,  where  the  Reverend  Curtin  Rennard  can  worship  and 
adore  it?" 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  15 

This  was  a  huge  joke  for  they  laughed:  a  serious  matter 
for  there  were  tears  in  the  eyes  of  the  girl. 

"What  do  you  think  he'd  do;  Cornelia,  if  he  found  this 
place?  " 

"He  mustn't,  Tom." 

"What  a  brute  he  is!" 

"Bless  him,"  said  the  girl. 

"Don't  you  think,  sister,"  Tom  pondered,  "don't  you  think 
mother  perhaps  was  like  that?" 

"Of  course  she  was,  Tom.  What  other  model  have  I  got? 
I  can't  really  remember.  Seeing  I  was  three  when  you  were 
born.  Knowing  father  I  bet  mother  didn't  nurse  you  except 
in  a  locked  closet.  But  how  else  do  I  understand?  And 
I  do!" 

"I  can't  remember  her  at  all." 

"I  either.     All  one  remembers  home  is  father." 

Tom  got  up.     "Prayer  time,  I  reckon." 

They  chose  a  close  recess  of  little  cedars,  they  hid  the 
model  and  came  away. 

The  woods  straggled  down  into  elders  and  a  last  thick 
cordon  of  callow  poplars.  Here  was  a  field.  It  was  untilled 
and  ragged  with  brown  hillocks  and  hollows.  They  passed 
their  cow,  tossing  her  tail.  The  breeze  of  the  end  of  day 
glided  under  their  feet,  scattered  through  the  field,  swung  up 
above  the  margin  of  trees.  Near  the  house  was  no  tree.  An 
unpainted  barn :  a  well  with  hood  awry  on  a  flag  of  shale.  .  .  . 

Cornelia  and  Tom  joined  their  brother  and  sisters  filling  the 
dim  room  with  their  thoughts  and  their  bodies.  Up  to  the 
flecked,  stained  ceiling  their  presence  filled  it.  The  room 
made  them  one.  The  empty  chair  that  faced  them  on  which 
lay  the  Bible  made  them  a  body  lacking  a  head.  Their 
shoulders  were  sharp  against  each  other.  Their  eyes  did  not 
meet,  save  in  the  empty  chair.  Fear  was  the  mold  of  the 
room,  making  them  one.  Fear  also  corroded  them,  shredded 


1 6  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

them  apart,  turned  them  into  what  each  was:  Clarence  and 
Ruth  and  Laura,  Cornelia  and  Tom. 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Rennard  was  very  late.  His  empty  chair 
grew  emptier.  The  Bible  faded.  The  room  was  losing  its 
submissive  creature.  It  was  bleak,  it  was  larger  and  less 
alive.  The  ceiling  went  up  and  the  vagrant  thoughts  of  them 
who  waited  went  less  to  the  ceiling,  flew  out  of  the  window. 
Outdoors  came»  in.  The  chirp  of  a  cricket,  the  minor-third 
of  a  frog  in  the  far  marsh,  the  undulant  sighing  of  trees  losing 
the  sun — came  into  the  room.  The  charm  was  gone.  The 
empty  chair  was  a  chair.  The  One  was  a  group,  jarred 
apart.  .  .  . 

"Father's  not  coming,"  Clarence  said.  "When  he  comes 
heTs  on  time." 

"You  tell  the  prayers,"  said  Ruth.     She  was  the  oldest. 

"Nonsense,"  said  Cornelia.    "We'll  call  it  off." 

Ruth  smirked.  She  was  glad  her  sister  had  committed  her 
self. 

Laura  was  silent:  Laura  who  was  the  youngest  and  yet  a 
terrible  age  had  eaten  her.  She  was  lanky  and  somehow 
starved.  Her  eyes  drooped,  her  large  hands  hung  limp,  her 
breasts  sagged  under  a  thick  brown  frock.  She  was  all  dull, 
she  was  mournful  and  dry  like  the  bald  patches  of  earth  in 
the  field.  Laura  was  the  one  who  was  sorry.  She  did  not 
wish  to  hear  her  brother:  she  missed  her  father.  She  loved 
the  bite  of  his  words,  the  frequent  blow  of  his  hand.  The  Hell 
he  pictured  was  sweet  to  her  since  he  consigned  it.  Laura 
loved  her  father  with  the  harsh  lust  of  brown  soil  for  the 
water  that  does  not  come.  She  was  dry  and  hot  and  sick 
with  this  sterile  love  of  her  father. 

Clarence  got  up.     "I  guess  not,"  he  said.     "I'm  going." 

He  was  younger  only  than  Ruth.  He  was  twenty-four. 
He  went  each  day  in  tke  buggy  to  Dahlton  where  he  attended 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  17 

the  Presbyterian  Seminary.     He  was  following  the  career  of 
his  father. 

Cornelia  and  Tom  were  alone.  They  looked  at  each  other. 
A  single  instinct  moved  them.  "Let's  go  back,"  she  whispered. 
They  clasped  hands. 

They  heard  the  crashing  of  the  underbrush,  a  deep  sudden 
breathing.  They  stood  there  silent.  A  tall  man  backed  out 
from  the  clump  of  little  cedars.  He  turned  and  dashed  the 
clay  model  against  a  rock.  Cornelia  screamed. 

Mr.  Rennard  looked  at  his  two  children.     His  fingers  trem- 
"bled.     He  kicked  the  ruins  of  the  statue  back  from  his  heels 
and  came  upon  them. 

"What's  that?  .  .  .  You  scream?" 

Cornelia  was  stark. 

"Stand  aside/'  he  ordered  Tom.  Tom  moved  as  a  muscle 
flicks  to  a  nerve. 

The  man  stood  over  his  daughter.  He  was  gray  and  erect. 
His  hand  lifted.  He  struck  her  sharp  on  the  cheek.  Then 
he  smiled.  His  hand  lifted  again. 

"No  you  don't,"  she  cried.     "No,  you  don't  dare!" 
I     "You  wanton " 

"No,  you  don't  dare!" 

The  old  man  looked  at  his  son  and  daughter,  his  face  was 
ineffably  sad.  It  was  sad  with  a  sense  of  sacrilege  and  of  a 
God  proved  impotent.  It  was  sad  with  a  hunger  that  only  a 
blow  could  appease. 

"Go  home! " 

His  command  straightened  Cornelia  and  her  face  stayed 
Tom. 

"We  are  going  to  stay  here." 

The  father  faced  annihilation.  He  must  disappear — disap 
pear  from  living,  or  he  must  find  a  channel  for  this  surge  of 
wrath.  He  found  it  since  he  was  strong.  Never  had  he 
beaten  in  his  home.  But  he  had  been  beaten  by  life. 


i8  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

The  process  was  old  with  him.  When  life  cast  him  out  he 
prayed.  He  avenged  himself  on  the  nations  of  men  and 
women  who  refused  to  be  his.  He  sent  them  living  into  Hell. 
He  avenged  himself  on  the  pitiful  bitter  hurt — on  the  remote 
ness — of  Beauty.  He  called  it  Sin.  Sweetly  he  escorted  men 
and  women  and  the  burden  of  love  into  Hell  with  his  prayers. 

"Daughter,"  he  said,  "you  have  committed  sins  that  make 
me  know  the  helplessness  of  intercession."  He  was  gone.  .  .  . 

Tom  was  down  with  his  head  in  his  two  hands,  crying. 
Cornelia  bent  over  him,  smoothed  his  hair,  kissed  his  wet  face 
feverishly  since  she  needed  to  do  something  with  her  tingling 
body.  Her  nerves  leaped  with  strain.  Deep  down,  something 
was  alive. 

aTom,— Tom,"  she  whispered,  "Don't!  I'm  glad.  Aren't 
you  glad?  ...  It  had  to  be.  It  is  good.  .  .  ." 

The  boy  looked  up:  he  saw  in  his  sister's  face  what  he  felt 
in  his  heart — their  life  had  died,  their  world  had  foundered. 

"We'd  better  go,"  said  Cornelia.  "You  know  what  I  mean. 
Life  at  home — after  this?"  She  shook  her  head,  her  eyes 
closed. 

Tom  sat  on  his  rock.  He  knew  it  was  his  turn.  He  knew 
he  sat  there,  a  child.  He  knew  he  must  rise,  a  man.  Never 
without  Cornelia  would  he  have  dared,  could  he  have  found 
strength  or  direction.  But  could  he  fail  of  her  challenge? 
Could  he  be  a  drag  on  her  strength? 

She  stood,  her  eyes  shut,  over  him,  touching  his  hair.  "I 
can't  imagine  it,"  she  said.  Still  he  sat.  His  eyes  were  open. 
They  saw  the  mangled  model  of  clay.  He  got  up. 

"We'll  go,"  he  said.  "We'll  go  East.  We'll  go  to  New 
York!  I'll  work.  I'll  find  work.  You'll  have  a  chance  to 
study." 

i     The  blue  mist  of  night  grew  between  them  as  they  faced 
each  other.     "Tom "  she  faltered  now.     "Why  not?"  her 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  19 

faltering  nerved  him.     "I  can  do  anything.  .  .  .  You,  sister, 
you've  got  to  be  an  artist — a  great  artist.     Wait  and  see." 

"Do  you  mean  it,  Tom?" 

He  was  sober, — like  a  panting  young  creature  after  a  race 
for  life. 

"I  never  meant  anything  before.  We're  going.  .  .  .  We're 
going  to-night." 

They  clung  heart  to  heart  like  lovers.  .  .  . 

Curtin  Rennard  returned  to  the  house  and  sent  them  all — 
who  were  there — to  their  rooms.  Laura  asked  after  the  absent 
Cornelia  and  Tom.  He  struck  her.  The  household  slept  in 
a  silence  like  black  in  which  many  colors  are  lost. 

Within  this  silence  came  Tom  and  Cornelia.  Two  candles 
burned  in  the  room  of  Ruth.  She  sat  on  her  bed.  Her 
brother  and  sister  stood.  She  was  in  her  nightgown,  a  fat 
miserable  woman  of  twenty-seven.  Her  body,  folding  and 
breathing,  seemed  a  part  of  the  heavy  matting,  of  the  rugose 
cover,  of  the  thin  sheet.  She  was  stout  and  her  voice  was 
thin.  She  had  fat  wide  arms  and  her  nose  was  sharp  and 
thin.  She  twirled  her  misshapen  toes. 

"Come  along  with  us,  Ruth,"  said  Cornelia. 

"I  can't." 

"Do  you  like  having  to  run  over  to  Dahlton  every  time  you 
want  to  see  Jack?" 

"I  can't." 

1     "Don't  you  want  to  get  free?" 
I     "I  can't." 

" — Hiding  like  a  sneak  in  the  woods  to  love:  just  because 
Jack's  a  carpenter." 
,      "I  can't." 

"You  could  marry  Jack,  if  you  left." 

Ruth  was  silent.  She  sat,  transfixed  a  moment.  A  great 
tide  of  misery  swept  her:  she  crumpled  back  in  her  bed.  She 
wept. 


20  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

"I  can't.  I  can't,"  she  looked  up.  "It's  too  late,"  she 
ended. 

Cornelia  seemed  to  understand,  though  it  was  all  blank  ugli 
ness  to  Tom. 

"Last  year,  even — if  I'd  dared.  If  you  had  helped  me  then. 
Now " 

"Ruth!"     Her  sister  went  to  her  and  held  her. 

"It's  all  over  now.     He's  had  about  all  he  wanted.  .  .  ." 

She  wept.  Cornelia  was  helpless.  A  great  shame  was  in 
the  room.  It  took  Cornelia  and  Tom  and  branded  them. 
Their  youth  was  a  sin.  Their  courage  was  a  heartless  boast 
ing.  Before  this  miserable  sister  who  had  lost  her  hope  their 
lives  were  suddenly  sweet  and  simple.  They  felt  shame. 

Tom  took  Ruth's  hand.  The  woman  sat  up  again  and 
looked  at  her  brother.  All  the  shame  was  with  him,  with  Cor 
nelia.  Ruth  sat  in  her  nightgown,  her  body  naked  before 
them;  she  was  simple  and  undismayed.  It  seemed  to  Tom  in 
this  hour  Ruth  was  great. 

She  was  quiet.  She  held  Tom's  hand,  she  reached  for 
Cornelia's.  She  kissed  first  one  hand,  then  the  other.  She 
smiled. 

"You — go,"  she  said.    "I  stay  here,  but  you — go." 

Her  tears  were  past.  It  was  as  if  she  had  passed  from 
herself.  She  said:  "I'll  bet  you've  no  dollar  to  go  with!" 

This  was  Tom's  business,  he  felt.  But  in  the  candlelight 
and  before  this  so  strangely  noble  wreckage  of  his  sister  he 
could  say  nothing.  She  laughed  silently.  She  pattered  to 
a  cupboard  under  the  two  glowing  candles.  She  dug  beneath 
a  bewilderment  of  clothes.  She  drew  out  a  wallet.  She  came 
back  to  her  bed. 

"There  are  two  hundred  and  twelve  dollars  in  here, — and  I 
must  get  rid  of  them.  Yes:  I  stole  them  bit  by  bit  from  the 
house  allowance.  God!  I'm  glad.  But  I  can't  stand  the 
thought  of  them  being  here  any  longer." 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  21 

Her  words  came  more  hard. 

"I  did  it  for  us — Jack  and  me.  I  was  going  to  bring  it  as 
a  surprise  the  day  we  ran  off.  I  never  told  him." 

There  was  a  pause:  a  song  in  it. 

"Please!"  she  thrust  the  wallet  into  Cornelia's  hand.  A 
pitiful  blend  in  her  voice  of  beseechment  and  command. 

She  got  up.  She  kissed  her  sister's  mouth  and  eyes.  She 
faltered  downward  until  her  head  touched  Cornelia's  skirt  and 
the  hand  clasping  the  wallet.  So,  half  kneeling,  she  stayed 
long. 

A  sudden  resolution  lifted  her.  She  took  Tom  in  her  arms. 
Always  Tom  had  despised  her.  He  had  known  her,  hypo 
critical  and  false,  the  meticulous  slave  of  her  father's  house 
hold.  Why  was  she  great  and  noble  only  now  when  hope  had 
left  her?  Why,  thinking  these  things,  could  Tom  not  abide 
the  hot  fold  of  her  embrace? 

"Good-by,"  she  said.     "Hurry." 

She  urged  them  to  the  door.    All  three  of  them  wept.  .  .  . 

i 

This  life,  which  Tom's  words  had  given,  was  now  David's. 

They  walked.  They  sat  on  a  rock  fairly  dry.  David  paddled 
Tom  in  his  canoe.  David  was  alone  at  The  Villa.  This  life 
which  Tom's  mood  had  given,  was  now  David's.  .  .  . 

"All  the  time,"  Tom  had  said,  "I  was  dreaming  to  be  a 
lawyer.  Sister  was  dreaming  to  be  a  sculptress." 

"Is  she?" 

"Yes.  .  .  .  Both  of  us  what  we  dreamed  to  be.  Neither  of 
us  what  we  dreamed  to  be." 

The  week  went.  The  last  day  came.  They  decided  to  go 
to  New  York  together.  They  packed  each  his  bag  and  sent 
it  ahead  to  the  station.  They  were  free-footed  under  the  last 
free  morning. 

The  field  was  a  gash  of  brilliance  across  the  wooded  fore- 


22  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

head  of  day.  The  trees  were  very  tall:  their  feet  dwelt  in 
dawn,  their  heads  touched  the  noon.  August — and  David's 
mother  dead  since  May.  The  field  was  a  gash  of  light  in 
David's  mind.  .  .  . 

He  loved  his  mother.  But  his  love  remained  at  the  depth 
where  it  began:  one  with  his  needs  when  he  was  an  infant 
and  she  nursed  him,  a  child  bruised  against  the  world  and  she 
consoled  him.  She  was  gone:  but  the  glow  of  her  motherhood 
still  warmed  through  his  life.  Like  his  love,  his  loss  was 
mute.  He  did  not  know  how  deeply  he  loved,  he  did  not 
know  how  deeply  he  had  lost  his  mother. 

He  wound  up  his  affairs — or  rather  he  watched  while  the 
benign  agency  of  his  uncle  wound  them  up  for  him.  He 
pocketed  a  fabulous  mass  of  bills.  Almost  in  the  spirit  of  a 
wanderer  after  Beauty  he  came  away. 

The  spirit  of  one  who  believes  in  the  presence  of  Peace  like 
the  running  on  of  the  wind,  like  the  running  on  of  a  river, 
like  the  spreading  of  flowers  upon  the  fields  of  the  world. 

He  had  come  to  this  lake,  gemmed  in  green  purpling  hills. 
His  calm  came  with  him.  He  listened  to  neighbors'  talk,  he 
wondered  pleasantly  before  the  world.  All  of  it  was  a  thing 
outside.  He  saw  himself  at  work  in  a  repair  shop,  at  table 
with  the  gentle  woman  whose  breath  was  a  well  of  feeling. 
He  lived  in  a  dream  that  was  real  and  was  not  yet  over. 

Sudden  this  man!  Walking  beside  him  now,  upon  the 
gash  of  the  world,  his  new  experience  was  a  hand  that  touched 
him — brushed  back  the  hair  from  his  sleepy  eyes — pressed 
fever  to  his  brow — grasped  his  throat  so  it  was  hard  to  breathe 
— struck  him! 

David  found  he  walked  in  a  hurting  wonder:  the  woods 
were  part  of  this  wonder:  the  man  beside  him  was  part 
of  a  whirling  wonder.  He  was  like  a  slumberous  water  that 
the  wind  struck  sudden  from  all  sides.  The  waves  of  his  feel 
ings  were  up  and  down.  His  deep  self — his  past — rose  through 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  23 

the  lashed  fissures  of  his  mood.  He  knew  that  his  old  life 
was  dead  and  how  he  loved  it:  that  his  new  life  was  being 
born  and  how  he  feared  it!  At  the  day's  close  the  night:  at 
that  day's  close  the  City! 

The  day  was  gleaming  glad  but  David  walked  in  storm. 

The  vision  of  his  mother  ...  he  raced  home  against  the 
thunder  he  could  see  above  them.  Great  drops  of  rain  were 
already  on  the  pavement;  the  day  was  night.  He  burst  into 
the  kitchen  where  his  mother  worked.  "My!  it  is  going  to 
storm."  He  saw  that  somehow  it  was  still  light  in  the  kitchen. 
It  was  different  from  outdoors.  There  about  his  mother  was 
a  bright  calm  spot  of  day  in  the  body  of  storm. 

She  said:  "Well,  David,  you  got  home  in  time.  What  are 
you  worrying  for?" 

David  looked  at  his  companion.  Tom  Rennard  was  clad 
in  strangeness.  David  looked  at  Tom  Rennard  and  the  room 
where  his  mother  worked  receded:  he  could  burst  in  on  it  no 
more,  hear  her  say: 

"Well,  David,  you  got  home  in  time.  What  are  you  worry 
ing  for?" 

It  was  all  moving  away  and  his  arms  were  helpless.  There 
was  Tom  looking  at  his  watch.  Tom  looked  at  him,  who 
somehow  was  breathless  beside  him. 

"Well,  we  got  here  in  time.  Fifteen  minutes  ahead.  What 
are  you  worrying  for?" 

A  shudder  through  David.  The  world  was  magic — black 
magic.  He  went  beyond  the  station  to  a  little  hedge  where 
a  tree  stood  alone.  He  sat  there  alone.  His  heart  made  a 
beating  music  through  his  head.  He  held  his  head  in  his 
hands,  there  were  tears  in  his  mouth. 

"Mother,  mother,"  he  murmured.     "I  miss  you,  mother." 

The  train  crashed  into  the  station:  he  had  to  return. 


II 

THE  pulse  of  moving  left  them  numb.  The  pensiveness 
of  rapid  flight  through  the  world  came  near  them,  could 
not  transfix  their  numbness.  Men  and  women  in  a 
railroad  car — serried,  determined;  pointed  the  train,  flung  it 
against  the  city.  David  sat  next  the*  window.  He  saw  the 
world  fly  past  as  if  afraid  and  offended.  The  green  comfort 
of  meadows  was  too  sweet  for  the  sharp  earnestness  of  the 
travelers.  They  had  no  will  for  the  shadow  of  trees  and  the 
cool  ambiance  of  little  rivers.  Their  mood  was  a  straight  hard 
hot  track  of  steel  along  which  they  flung:  their  mood  cut 
through  smile  of  fields,  slumber  of  towns.  Their  minds  hurled 
the  train.  .  .  . 

Tom  and  David  sat  together  swathed  in  the  pensiveness  of 
travel.  David  was  restrained  and  somehow  broken.  Tom 
made  efforts  to  read.  Mostly  he  held  the  book  in  his  lap 
and  looked  before  him.  He  spoke  to  David  but  David  was 
impossible  to  speak  to.  Tom  understood. 

His  own  coming  to  New  York,  eight  years  before,  was  there. 
It  was  an  ecstasy,  an  angry  birth.  Manhattan  girdled  in 
flame,  Manhattan  a  woman,  terrible,  virgin,  and  he  aware  of 
his  own  love  and  of  his  impotence  before  her.  Moving  in  the 
train  with  Tom,  this  time  beside  the  mystery  of  David,  as  that 
first  time  beside  the  mystery  of  his  fate,  was  the  seed  of 
Tom's  fate — his  past.  Moving  hi  Tom  along  the  iron 
rails.  .  .  . 

The  train  and  the  rails  and  that  world  were  gone:  were 
become  a  cloud  of  sense  lifting  him  elsewhere.  He  dreamed 
of  New  York,  of  Ohio  .  .  .  locust  grove,  slender,  reticent,  a- 

24 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  25 

thrill  with  the  restraint  of  some  secret  ...  he  dreamed  of 
them  as  if  they  were  not,  he  only  was  ...  he  a  dream. 

Night  cast  down  curtains.  Tom  looked  at  David  again, 
and  seemed  to  enter  and  know  him.  David  was  moving  for 
ward  to  the  City  as  to  a  death  he  must  pass  through.  The 
City  was  a  cloud  for  them  both  .  .  .  though  a  different  cloud 
.  .  .  whose  blackness  wreathed  far  over  their  afternoon.  But 
David  was  distant  from  Thomas  Rennard.  David  felt  he 
might  know  this  man  and  the  City  at  a  single  moment:  know 
them  at  once  and  together. 

Sharp  long  shadows  crouched  across  the  aisle  of  the  car. 
Heads  and  shoulders  of  men  and  women  loomed  from  a  com 
mon  gloom  that  expressed  their  oneness.  Men  and  women 
were  single-mooded,  single-Joined,  they  were  a  swaying,  night- 
bound  creature. 

Four  men — more  nearly  boys  save  one  who  was  old — got 
up  and  reached  to  the  racks  above  the  windows.  They  took 
violins  and  mandolins  from  cases.  They  tuned  them.  The 
old  one  who  was  leader  struck  a  chord.  A  chorus  of  voices — 
male  and  wistfully  female — quavered  about  the  car. 

Only  the  four  who  stood  were  visible.  Song  rose  from 
underneath  them,  tremulous  and  pervasive,  rose  from  the 
gloom  of  the  car.  It  was  a  song  of  folk,  a  song  of  yearn 
ing.  Passion  shot  it  through  and  passion  ribbed  it,  it  was 
a  song  of  tender  sorrow.  The  voices  of  women  rose  in  it  like 
waving  of  lonely  trees  in  a  wide  bare  field — rose  and  swayed, 
wept  and  subsided.  The  voices  of  men  rose  higher,  mastering, 
comforting  the  low  wail  of  women. 

The  melody  throbbed  higher.  Sharp  flashings  of  desire  were 
now  the  women's  voices:  the  men  were  weary  and  disconsolate, 
dying  down.  The  song  was  over. 

A  new  silence  lay  in  the  car.  The  car  ran  on,  subdued  in 
it  and  sweetened. 

The  leader  lifted  his  violin.    He  was  a  man  of  gray  hair 


26  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

and  tremorous  shoulders.  His  back  was  to  David.  The  three 
boys  rose  again.  Two  of  them  very  dark  with  hot  tender  eyes 
and  glowing  hair.  The  third  was  light,  all  his  skin  and  hair 
was  golden.  David  knew  they  were  foreigners. 

There  was  laughter  in  the  song.  Sunlight  aglisten  on  tears. 
Laughter  of  longing  beyond  hope,  laughter  of  proud  submis 
sion.  The  women's  voices  welled  like  a  sudden  sea.  Their 
liquid  accents  spoke  of  the  softness  of  hands  and  the  round 
ness  of  breasts,  of  the  defiant  promise  of  loyal  children. 
Laughter  of  love  and  blood.  They  sat  half  lost  in  the  gloom — 
wistful  maidens,  battered  women — breeders  of  the  defiance  of 
loyal  children.  Their  eyes  glowed  as  they  sang,  their  lips 
were  round  and  wet  with  their  song.  The  music  rippled  and 
foamed  and  raced.  The  men  joined  in — hard,  staccato  lane- 
ings  of  laughter — the  music  of  men  who  had  such  mothers. 
The  car  was  caught  and  was  quick  in  their  ecstasy.  The  car 
laughed  on,  raced  on,  under  a  song  of  low  fields  and  mounting 
conquering  laughter. 

David  was  lifted  up.  His  veins  were  eager  with  melody,  his 
eyes  were  dim.  Never  had  he  heard  such  music. 

"Who  are  they?" 

"Little  Russians,  I  think.  Ukrainians.  Landless  folk 
whose  song  is  their  land." 

Tom  also  was  moved.  Differently.  He  listened  to  the 
music — thinking  of  the  silent  passengers  about  this  little  group 
of  immigrants — the  voiceless  Anglo-Saxons,  himself. 

"If  I  had  songs  like  that  ...  if  I  could  sing  such  songs!" 
David  wanted  to  say.  He  said  nothing.  His  own  violin 
seemed  a  mute  thing. 

They  were  singing.  An  almost  silent  song,  a  song  without 
words,  a  song  so  wide  and  deep  alone  the  cries  of  women  and 
men  could  compass  it.  Voices  rose  and  rolled,  faintly,  waver 
ing.  The  song  was  flame:  it  smoldered  in  the  car:  it  glowed 
there,  a  little  flame  in  a  black  cold  hearth. 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  27 

The  song  leaped  up.  Darts  of  burning,  flashes  of  spark: 
a  man's  voice  crackled  against  the  women.  The  song  was 
a  blaze.  It  roared;  it  danced  and  consumed. 

David  and  Tom  saw  the  rapt  eyes  of  women — stronger 
suddenly  than  the  gloom.  Saw  the  sway  of  the  men,  singing 
and  playing  together. 

The  song  died  down.  It  was  ember,  crimson  coal.  It  was 
ash.  .  .  . 

Night  was  there.  The  lamps  burned  fitfully  overhead. 
Without  was  a  dark  rushing  of  buildings.  Night  and  the  City 
was  there.  The  singing  was  over. 

David's  heart  was  full  of  the  blood  of  songs:  they  were 
singing  still  in  his  heart.  He  looked  out  of  the  window. 

Black.  A  dim  rushing  of  buildings — a  rushing  of  swarm 
ing  streets  gutted  with  yellow  lights.  Life  out  there  was  burn 
ing  against  black — was  being  swept  into  black. 

In  the  window  David  saw  himself  reflected,  saw  past  him 
self  to  Tom  and  the  vague  faces  of  the  car.  His  own  face  was 
pale,  there  in  the  frame  of  the  window.  His  own  face  lay 
half  blotted  out  in  the  swinging  of  streets  as  under  water. 
Tom's  face  was  pale  and  clear.  David  looked  out  of  the 
window  seeing  the  City:  and  saw  imprinted  there  the  faces 
of  David  and  his  new  friend — white,  ghostly,  real.  His  heart 
beat  with  agony  of  portent. 

Another  silence.     Silence  of  preparation. 

The  car  prepared  to  die — to  be  shattered  into  two-score 
lives,  into  a  thousand  passions.  The  steel-straight  mood  rac 
ing  to  the  City  was  done.  In  its  place  a  flutter  of  moods,  a 
scatter  as  of  birds  under  low  skies. 

Above  the  lamplight,  under  the  swaying  ceiling,  shreds  of 
song  hovered,  torn  remnants  of  voices. 

The  train  shrieked  and.  shivered,  it  plunged  into  a  tunnel. 

Smoke  swept  away  David's  vision.    The  City  was  gone  from 


28  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

the  window  and  the  reflection  in  it  of  himself.    Teeming  pour 
ing  blackness  without. 

David  turned  and  looked  in  the  car.  It  was  hot  and  hard 
to  breathe.  Thin  threads  of  smoke  seeped  in  from  the  win 
dows.  They  writhed  about,  they  trailed  upwards  to  the  ceil 
ing.  Smoke  was  where  songs  had  lingered.  .  .  . 


Ill 


".  .  .  Of  course,  my  dear  nephew,  you  must  stay  with  us 
until  you  have  found  a  comfortable  and  suitable  home  for 
yourself  in  the  city.  .  .  ." 

SO  had  David's  aunt,  Lauretta  Deane,  written  to  him  and 
made  him  somehow  doubt  the  amiability  of  the  lady, 
despite  the  fact  of  her  welcome.  He  had  never  met 
the  family  of  his  uncle.  He  felt  a  significance  in  this.  His 
mother  used  at  times  to  talk  of  Aunt  Lauretta  as  of  a  for 
tunately  distant  fact. 

"Your  father  and  Uncle  Anthony  never  did  seem  to  get 
along,"  she  said.  That  perhaps  disposed  for  her  of  Anthony's 
wife. 

Mr.  Deane  answered  the  bell.  .  .  .  David  stepped  into  a 
naked  hall,  hanging  in  camphored  drapery.  The  varnished 
floor  swept  away  in  parabolic  shadows;  the  bannisters  of  the 
stair  were  a  red  lacquered  flourish,  a  sort  of  scrolled  battalion 
along  red,  lacquered  steps.  There  was  his  uncle,  rather  hot, 
coatless,  diminished. 

"Well — glad  to  see  you,  my  boy.  .  .  .  Have  a  good  jour 
ney?" 

David  was  looking  for  more  glory.  It  struck  him  that 
the  house  was  bigger,  brighter  than  this  man.  The  tradi 
tional  Uncle  Anthony  seemed  to  require  the  setting  of  his 
visits  to  the  little  town.  He  mumbled  amenably. 

"Your  aunt  and  your  cousins  are  in  the  mountains  .  .  .  I'm 
alone,  as  you  see.  Come  in." 

He  went  before  David  up  the  stairs.  They  sounded  hollow 
and  yet  they  were  bright. 

29 


30  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

"The  parlor's  closed  up  for  the  summer.  Step  in  here. 
Have  a  drink  of  something  cool?" 

"Just  vichy,  thank  you."  His  uncle  moved  toward  the  de- 
canter  beside  the  paper-littered  chair  where  he  had  evidently 
sat. 

David  stood  still,  holding  his  cool  glass  and  aware,  though 
he  looked  beyond,  of  vagrant  feathery  bubbles  in  the  water. 
Mr.  Deane  leaned  over  the  decanter. 

In  the  center  of  David's  mind  was  the  scurry  of  papers 
— Sunday  papers — on  the  floor,  on  the  table,  on  the  chairs. 
Chairs  protruded  flamboyant  scrollery  from  under  the  drab 
gray  of  their  summer  dress,  like  little  old  coquettes.  Massive 
pictures  heaved  on  the  walls,  and  these  were  covered  also  and 
betrayed  glimpses  of  finery  of  gilded  frames.  The  family 
photographs  were  bare.  David  found  himself  sharply  looking 
at  a  stentorian  lady  and  two  pretty  girls  with  down-turned 
mouths.  He  drew  his  body  toward  his  questioning  uncle. 

Mr.  Deane  found  questions  hard.  Three  times  he  asked 
if  David  had  enjoyed  his  vacation :  three  times  if  he  was  ready 
for  work.  Then,  with  a  sudden  sympathy,  it  came  to  him 
that  such  solicitude  was  perhaps  wearying. 

"Better  sit  down,"  he  said.  Gently.  At  last,  "Well— I 
guess  you're  tired.  You  can  go  to  bed  if  you  wish  to.  All 
ready  for  you,  my  boy,  you  se<^ 

There  was  a  certain  pride  in  his  remark.  David  caught 
this.  He  did  not  understand.  He  was  in  a  mood  where  what 
he  did  not  understand  he  could  not  like. 

He  found  his  two  legs  not  quite  enough  to  stand  on.  He 
was  uncomfortable,  shifting,  now  he  had  gotten  up.  He  fol 
lowed  his  uncle  to  the  fourth  and  topmost  floor  of  the  empty 
echoing  house.  In  each  narrow  hall  as  they  passed  through, 
a  gas-jet  trembled  in  a  red  rugose  globe. 

"Here  we  are,  my  boy.  Bathroom  below."  Mr.  Deane 
smiled.  "I'll  have  you  waked  in  the  morning.  Sleep  tight." 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  31 

David  heard  him  stamp  heavily  down  to  his  easy-chair, 
his  chaos  of  papers,  his  whiskey.  As  he  had  turned,  he  seemed 
to  wink  at  David.  Was  he  trying  to  be  kind?  A  door 
slammed  outer  silence.  The  room  was  alive.  .  .  . 

The  Vice-president  of  the  Railroad  had  an  estate  three 
miles  beyond  the  limits  of  David's  town.  The  Vice-president 
had  a  somewhat  remote  sister  who  used  to  visit  David's 
mother.  Although  Mrs.  Markand  always  tried  to  stop  her 
and  to  change  the  subject — it  shamed  her — this  lady  would 
talk  of  the  glories  of  that  estate  and  of  the  pride  of  its 
owner.  So  now  this  room  was  talking  of  the  Deanes.  A  re 
mote  room  it  was,  thrust  out  in  limbo — an  obviously  spare 
room.  But  it  was  full  and  stridulous  with  observations. 
I  David  sat  on  the  broad  bed.  Two  dormer  windows  were 
open,  and  the  street  came  in.  A  low  ponderous  murmur 
welling  and  declining.  Fogged  and  blue.  With  sudden  peri 
odic  flashes  of  near  commotion:  a  passing  cab,  a  car  clanking. 
The  pervasive  sense  of  low  hard  pavement  drenched  with  the 
beat  of  life  swung  up  to  him  in  flat  strokes. 

The  room  had  the  same  fogginess,  the  same  color  as  this 
new  world:  the  same  dull  compression  of  incessant  life.  It, 
too,  was  a  scabbard  for  some  lancing  emotion.  Doubtless  his 
glimpse  of  the  family  photographs  had  determined  David's 
mind  more  than  he  knew:  tlj£  muffled  finery  of  the  house. 

David  had  the  sense  of  a  prison;  or  was  it  a  church?  There 
were  hearts  here  that  beat  against  this  place,  and  yet  they 
were  worshipful  voices.  He  had  never  thought  of  the  arrogant 
consistence  of  walls  and  of  an  aunt.  He  was  not  sure  of  his 
cousins. 

Unknown  to  himself,  with  the  naive  prescience  of  the  wild 
caught  thing,  David  found  the  spirit  of  the  house:  its  angular 
and  mournful  fixity,  its  irrelevance  of  finery  and  comfort.  He 
had  been  shocked  to  find  that  he  knew  these  sorts  of  furniture 
and  ornaments:  there  had  been  sporadic  visits  to  stately  coun- 


32  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

try  parlors.  The  City's  contribution  seemed  mostly  the 
house  itself,  perhaps  its  work  upon  what  was  in  it.  ...  A 
City  of  somber  houses  sentineled  like  conquerors  on  sodden 
streets. 

David  settled  back  in  the  wide  bed  and  drifted  away;  a 
cloud  of  porcelain  fans  and  gilt  settees  and  majolica  statuettes 
swept  in  his  mind  with  a  mingling  of  soft  girls,  and  beat  on 
the  frown  of  gray  walls.  .  .  . 

It  was  night  when  he  awoke.  A  numbness  was  over  David. 
He  thought:  "Why  don't  all  these  things  thrill  me  more?" 
He  felt  the  plethoric  breathing  of  New  York.  Night  had 
always  meant  to  him  the  freedom  of  dreams,  play  of  stars. 
Here  was  a  night  that  stirred  with  stifled  pain.  David  jumped 
out  of  the  bed  and  went  to  the  window. 

An  unbroken  flank  of  houses  rose  from  the  mist  of  the 
street.  They  were  lightless  and  sleeping.  They  were  not 
dreaming  like  most  houses  he  had  known  that  went  musing 
by  night.  They  were  heavy  and  hurt.  It  was  as  if  the  day 
had  struck  them  and  blinded  them;  left  them  there  in  a  coma. 
David  saw  the  quavering  glow  of  the  sky.  The  air  came  to 
his  naked  throat  with  moist  fingers  that  trembled.  David 
crept  away  to  bed.  .  .  . 

"Your  bath  is  ready,  Sir." 

He  heard  this,  he  recalled  the  several  knocks  that  had  pre 
ceded.  A  sun  slanted  into  the  dormer  windows,  lay  bright 
there  in  the  corner  of  his  room.  But  the  shadows  were 
everywhere — hostile  hangers-on. 

At  table  below  he  found  his  uncle,  still  coatless,  moist,  full 
also  of  night's  shadows.  His  uncle  looked  worn  and  tired. 
A  drawing  weariness  in  his  own  body,  over  his  own  face,  told 
him  the  same  shadows  clung  to  himself.  City  morning  lacked 
the  resilience  of  new  birth.  It  must  be  the  usual  thing:  for 
Mr.  Deane  had  answered  his  question  with  "Yes,  I  slept  fine," 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  33 

% 

and  David  looking  back  over  the  swift  night  could  see  in  it  no 
cause  for  this  new  agedness  that  waked  in  his  veins. 

"A  cool  night,"  said  Mr.  Deane.  "You  were  lucky,  lad,  not 
to  be  introduced  to  the  city  in  one  of  our  broilers."  ~ 

The  swinging  door  widened,  the  maid  brought  David  his 
breakfast.  A  melon,  eggs  daintily  propped  in  porcelain  fun 
nels:  he  must  split  them,  he  guessed,  with  a  sharp  stroke  of 
the  knife  without  taking  them  out:  coffee  that  cut  mental 
mists.  .  .  .  What  curious  impressions  he  was  having!  He 
sat  so  long  in  this  room,  he  noticed  the  shadows  on  his  uncle's 
face,  the  shadows  in  his  own  blood:  he  had  not  seen  the  room. 
He  felt  now  as  if  he  had  thought  the  room  was  dark,  and  there 
was  no  use  trying  to  see  in  the  dark.  The  door  swung  wide: 
it  was  as  if  himself  had  just  come  in.  Yellow  woodwork  in 
the  pantry,  an  entering  maid.  He  saw  tlie  heavy  panelings 
in  oak  and  the  resplendent  chandelier  in  the  air  and  the 
straight-back,  red-plush  chairs  and  that  the  maid  was  like 
himself  from  the  country.  She  was  a  heavy  solid  girl  moving 
in  grace.  Chestnut  hair  about  the  sweet  round  eyes.  Her 
smile  was  sweet,  he  did  not  feel  like  smiling;  she  was  the 
sort  that  smelt  of  warm  milk;  David  thought  to  himself  what 
a  shame  she  had  lost  two  of  her  teeth. 

He  liked  her  standing  close  to  him,  serving  him:  her  arm 
touched  his  shoulder.  He  saw  that  the  ceiling  was  painted: 
it  sagged  down  in  a  verdant  circle  of  flowers:  obese  angels 
cavorted  about  very  green  garlands. 

"We're  friends,"  his  senses  spoke,  "we  are  both  strangers." 

Mr.  Deane  rustled  his  papers:  he  dipped  toast  in  his  coffee, 
noisily  lapped  it  up,  sucked  his  mustache.  It  was  droll  how 
his  red  tongue  shot  out  and  caught  the  brown  drip  of  his 
mustache.  Mr.  Deane  was  talking. 

"We'll  go  down  together,  my  boy — for  the  first  day."  He 
consulted  his  watch.  "It's  eight-twenty  now.  As  a  rule,  I 
think  Mr.  McGill  will  want  you  at  the  office  at  eight.  It 


34  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

takes  forty  minutes  from  here  to  the  office.  Fifteen  minutes 
for  breakfast."  He  reckoned  and  rang  the  bell.  To  the 
entering  girl:  "Anne,  Mr.  David's  regular  breakfast  time^will 
be  ten  past  seven." 

His  face  had  been  long,  looking  away.  It  turned  again 
toward  David,  and  broadened.  He  winked.  Yes:  he  was  try 
ing  to  be  kind. 

"Does  your  watch  keep  good  time?"  he  asked.  Why  should 
this  question  seem  to  bring  him  relief?  "See  to  that,  my  boy. 
The  City  is  run  on  schedule,.  On  schedule.  That's  why  it's 
a  great  City.  That's  what  makes  a  great  City  out  of  a  piece 
of  country.  Manhattan  once  had  fields  in  it.  And  a  few 
hills.  Oh,  yes — Central  Park  was  a  squatter's  marsh.  Wait 
till  you  see  it  with  its  new  asphalt  roads!  Some  day  there'll 
be  asphalt  roads  all  over  the  country." 

"It'll  be  hard  on  the  horses,"  David  felt  he  must  inform 
his  uncle. 

"Hard  on  the  horses?  Maybe.  Maybe  it  will.  That's 
the  rule  of  civilization.  It  is  hard  on  us  all.  Hard  on  the 
workers  and  hard  on  the  bosses.  It's  worth  it.  Progress  must 
have  her  dividends.  When  Captains  of  Industry  die  of  over 
work,  should  we  spare  horses?  We'll  do  without  them!" 

Mr.  Deane  made  a  long  strip  of  his  napkin  and  ran  it  hori 
zontally,  methodically  over  his  mouth.  "You  see,"  he  went 
on,  "you'll  have  to  change  your  outlook  on  life,  now  that  you 
are  to  become  a  part  of  the  great  City — a  part  of  the  great 
Machine.  You'll  be  proud  of  it,  soon  enough.  The  New 
Yorker  is  a  man  of  service.  He  serves  Business.  He  serves 
Country.  He  don't  think  of  himself.  Look  at  me.  Your 
Aunt  Lauretta  is  away  vacationing.  I  stay  here  and  work.  I 
don't  think  of  myself.  I've  not  taken  three  weeks  off  in 
twenty  years'  time.  I  stick  to  my  guns.  They  can  trust  me 
in  the  City.  They  know  I  am  faithful:  I  am  always  on  the 
spot.  The  easy  jolly  ways  of  the  country  don't  go  far  in  the 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  35 

Metropolis.  We're  a  beehive,  we  are.  Work!  Service!  And 
the  ambition  of  each  man  is  to  die  in  harness.  Of  course,  I 
mean  the  men  who  succeed.  That  is  the  one  way  to  earn 
real  money  in  New  York.  To  think  of  absolutely  nothing 
else:  to  give  time  to  absolutely  nothing  else.  There's  the 
American  Ideal  of  Service  for  you."  He  paused  and  glowed 
upon  his  nephew  who  sat,  stiffly  erect,  trying  to  believe,  in 
order  that  he  might  like  this  talk.  .  .  .  "And,  my  boy,  what's 
the  result?  Don't  you  know?  .  .  .  America  is  the  result!" 
He  flourished  his  white  hands.  "The  great  Democracy.  The 
land  of  three  and  a  half  million  square  miles.  We've  made  it. 
The  American  Ideal  made  it.  I've  been  out  West.  I've  seen 
our  country.  The  Rockies  that  you  could  drop  the  Alps  into 
— lose  them.  The  Grand  Canyon  that's  a  mile  from  top  to 
bottom.  The  geysers  in  Yellowstone  Park.  The  greatest, 
most  populous,  the  biggest  country  on  Earth!  And  we've 
made  it.  We're  making  it,  my  boy.  American  Ideals." 

Mr.  Deane  stopped  again.  He  reached  for  his  climax.  He 
found  it.  "I  presume,"  he  said,  "I  presume  no  sane  man 
will  deny  that  William  McKinley  is  the  greatest  statesman 
to-day  in  the  world." 

He  said  this  with  a  new  impressive  quiet.  He  had  heard  a 
speech  of  Senator  Black:  he  had  shaken  hands  with  him.  He 
recalled  his  gesture. 

David  nodded.  He  felt  he  must  do  something.  He  felt  a 
strange  discomfort.  Why  should  he  resent  these  patriotic 
words?  why  want  to  doubt  them?  Should  he  not  have  found 
glory  in  believing?  His  mind  dropped  back  to  Thomas  Ren- 
nard  and  he  knew  that  Rennard  would  have  contrived  to  scout 
these  boasts.  He  found  himself  relieved.  He  wanted  Ren 
nard  as  a  companion  in  the  guilt  of  his  mood.  He  was  quite 
sure  it  was  guilt  to  doubt  a  word  of  his  uncle's.  No  question 
of  that. 


36  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

He  sat  beside  him  in  the  car:  his  uncle  was  reading  his 
third  morning  paper.  They  spurted  and  clanked,  they  swayed 
down  the  great  iron  street.  David  was  swung  in  the  wonders 
of  this  clanging  cable  that  tossed  them  headlong,  while  the 
wheels  groaned  to  be  free  of  their  rails,  that  dropped  them 
rocking  and  sighing  to  a  halt.  What  he  saw  was  himself  sur 
rounded  by  mournful  men — clottings  of  men  under  straps — 
and  all  devoured  by  the  news  they  sucked  from  their  papers, 
all  immersed  by  the  same  strange  shadows — angular  shadows — 
he  felt  in  his  own  veins.  Beyond  the  maze  of  men  ran  out 
the  mazes  of  traffic.  Capering  strides  of  horses  with  yearnful 
nostrils;  interminable  houses,  motley,  jagged,  restless,  broken 
off  into  squares  and  comers  like  herded  wild  things  before  the 
assault  of  other  wild  things  more  volatile  than  they.  So  it 
seemed  to  David:  these  buildings  grouped  in  panic  were  of 
one  stuff  and  soul  with  the  scurrying,  arrogant  throngs  that 
pressed  about  them  and  clambered  through  them. 

In  its  startled  rhythm  David's  mind  wandered  aimlessly. 
He  forgot  about  the  car:  when  it  moved  with  any  respite  it 
loped  like  a  weary  and  whipped  horse.  The  broken  rhythm 
made  openings  for  his  mind :  patches  of  his  past  came  through 
the  interstices  of  moving,  came  torn  and  poignant.  He  saw 
himself  in  his  easy  greasy  clothes  at  work  at  home:  he  felt 
the  shoulders  of  plain  men  beside  his  shoulders:  eyes  of 
brothers  looked  into  his  eyes  and  his  hands,  black  with  oil, 
clasped  other  hands  that  were  warm.  His  hands  and  theirs 
were  near  each  other — far,  equally  far  from  himself  now 
moving  through  a  city.  He  saw  not  patches  of  his  past  but 
of  himself,  as  if  he  had  been  looking  through  this  clot  of 
men  at  a  man  beyond  them.  He  had  a  vision,  harried  by  the 
car's  toss,  of  a  young  man  alive  with  many  others.  They 
marched  along  a  hooded  way  into  a  shadowy  house.  Their 
loose  clothes,  the  grease  of  their  hands,  the  smile  of  their  eyes 
was  going  to  be  cleansed  away.  He  saw  his  hands  clasping, 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  37 

so  far  from  his  hands  now,  hands  of  men  who  were  brothers 
and  who  were  losing  hold  of  a  warmth  held  in  the  clasp  of 
hands.  .  .  .  His  drifting  mind  touched  a  book  he  had  loved: 
The  Tale  of  Two  Cities.  He  saw  a  tumbril  with  its  sodden 
burden  moving  through  the  Terror  of  Paris.  He  saw  the 
death-claimed  gaze  of  men  moving  through  crowded  streets. 
He  heard  the  groan  of  wheels.  Seeing  these  far  things,  when 
his  uncle  jerked  his  sleeve — "Here  we  are" — he  was  not  far 
away.  .  ,  . 

"That's  the  East  River  yonder." 

David's  mood  changed.  .  .  .  They  walked  down  a  narrow 
street  whose  name  was  a  legend.  David  was  walking  on  Wall 
Street.  Glass  casements  fronting  heavy  buildings,  huge 
masonry  pillared  by  slender  stone — the  grace  and  loom,  the 
hypocrisy  of  Power.  Spawn  of  the  buildings:  men  with  naked 
singing  nerves  like  wires  in  storm,  and  women  with  dead  eyes, 
women  with  soft  breasts  against  a  hard  tiding  world.  Furious 
streets.  A  street  wide  and  delirious  with  men  shouting  and 
waving  their  straw-hats  like  banners.  Streets  narrow  and 
somber  that  curled  like  smoke  across  his  feet.  Streets  eaten 
with  secret  moods.  Streets  cluttered  and  twisting  with  pent 
power.  Streets  pulsant  like  hose.  Streets  slumberous  like 
pythons.  Streets  writhing  and  locked. 

A  wide  gash  of  sky.  The  sun  was  a  stranger.  The  blue 
was  a  burn. 

They  went  toward  the  River.  Black  houses  were  lost  among 
masts  of  ships.  Black  herded  houses  crawled  towards  the 
wharves.  Men  were  nervous  like  rats  feeding  on  grain. 

David  walked  on  Wall  Street.  Walked  toward  his  uncle's 
office  that  was  to  swallow  him  up.  Walked  down  to  where  it 
waited  him,  a  block  from  Wall  street.  Life  was  sea-yearn 
ing.  Shops  sold  sails  and  compasses  and  binnacles.  In  the 
smart  of  the  salt  a  scent  and  a  sense  of  spices.  Coffee  and 
wines  were  at  home  here  in  the  grime  of  the  North,  had 


38  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

brought  with  them  the  linger  of  their  homes.  Tobacco. 
Musty  housings  for  jagged  yellow  leaves.  A  brooding,  reeking, 
murmurous  street. 

David  fell  down  the  funnel  of  a  world.  The  waters  touched 
him  that  touched  far  lands.  Pregnant  waters.  He  had  been 
like  a  virgin  whose  lips  trembled  with  fear.  He  was  like  a 
virgin  whose  lips  tremble  with  desire. 

He  stepped  into  a  doorway,  behind  his  uncle.  .  .  . 

The  Deanes  returned  from  the  mountains  in  a  body.  Mr. 
Deane,  despite  his  virtues,  was  taking  a  vacation.  A  few  days 
after  David's  mustering  into  service,  he  had  gone  to  join  his 
wife  and  daughters.  David  was  alone  in  the  barren  house, 
with  Anne  to  cook  his  breakfasts  and  make  his  bed. 

David  was  alone  with  Anne  in  the  house.  But  in  the  house 
was  the  spirit  of  its  owners  and  more  really  David  was  alone 
with  that. 

He  moved  uneasy  through  the  City,  he  lay  uneasy  in  this 
house  that  was  his  only  home.  He  tried  to  win  a  certain 
temporary  comfort.  He  was  helpless  against  the  press  of  the 
Deanes,  thwarting  his  rest  as  he  sat  eating  his  food;  against 
the  press  of  the  City  as  he  worked  at  his  desk  downtown, 
earning  his  food.  It  was  beyond  his  reason.  The  days  were 
fire.  The  nights  were  fume  of  heated  stone  and  brick.  And, 
within  the  stone  and  brick,  restless  spirits  marring  his  own. 
The  City  gasped  out  the  heat  of  the  day  by  night.  David 
was  seared  between  alternate  fires. 

The  heat  of  business  dulled  his  will,  depleted  his  body, 
aroused  his  nerves.  A  new  equation.  At  the  hour  of  closing, 
he  was  tired  and  yet  only  partly  tired.  The  discrepancy  gave 
accent  to  his  fatigue.  The  rounded,  gentle  weariness  that 
he  had  often  known,  which  took  him  whole  in  encompassing 
arms  and  lowered  him  to  sleep,  was  not  this.  The  City  worked 
on  him  with  an  uneven  spite.  There  he  was,  with  the  low 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  39 

sun  hot  in  the  west  above  the  lurid  Hudson:  limp  and  moist 
and  spirit-dead,  but  with  senses  leaping  and  a  hunger  ranging 
his  veins. 

In  this  state,  David  took  his  supper — trying  to  stifle  the 
heat  with  iced  tea  and  iced  coffee.  In  this  state  he  tried  to 
sleep. 

He  lay  naked  in  bed.  The  sheets  clung  to  his  flesh.  His 
skin  prickled  with  irritation. 

So  far  as  work  emptied  him  work  was  good.  A  new  experi 
ence  was  a  new  vessel — what  David  needed  to  pour  of  himself. 
But  the  season  was  dull.  Mr.  McGill  was  gone,  and  already 
his  first  task,  to  sort  and  enter  bills  of  lading,  was  a  tedious 
habit.  It  seemed  not  work  to  David  but  the  kind  of  punish 
ment  that  was  occasionally  meted  out  in  school:  like  copying 
the  commandment  one  hundred  times:  "I  must  not  talk  during 
hours."  There  was  nothing  more  or  else  to  do,  until  the 
Manager's  return. 

The  office  was  a  haphazard,  a  languorous,  loose  beast  func 
tioning  dully  through  the  inertia  of  its  past  and  the  prod  of 
its  future.  Clusters  of  girls  formed  like  flies  on  a  kitchen 
table.  They  chatted  and  laughed  and  wiped  the  clotted  pow 
der  from  their  cheeks.  They  took  long  hours  for  lunch,  buy 
ing  cakes  and  cream-puffs  and  olives  from  the  store  and  eating 
in  the  office.  The  boys  hovered  about  like  greedy  dogs,  bark 
ing  and  sniffing  and  showing  a  tendency  to  rear  on  their  hind 
legsf.  The  girls,  loving  the  sense  of  their  desire,  kept  them 
unsated.  Most  of  the  occupants  of  the  inner  offices  were 
absent.  On  the  other  floors,  above,  below,  the  rumble  of  the 
packers  and  the  crash  of  boxes  made  a  dusty  murmur.  David 
had  seen  these  infernos  of  industry,  caught  the  acerb  flavor 
of  wet  tobacco  and  sweat  and  heat,  observed  men  moving  in 
the  mist  of  their  hands  and  women  serried  at  filthy  tables,  with 
haggard  arms  that  were  forever  plying  and  hot  eyes  that  were 
still.  He  preferred  his  purgatory.  He  hated  the  hour  of 


40  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

lunch  when  he  must  step  down  into  the  flaming  stream  of  the 
can}ron  and  be  part  of  it,  hunting  his  food.  He  was  glad 
when  the  hour  of  closing  came  like  a  silent  charm,  stilled  the 
drone  of  the  work.  No  clock  was  needed  to  announce  this 
hour.  It  went  over  the  cluttered  room  like  an  invisible  hand: 
5ts  tenuous  sweet  fingers  touched  every  one  and  everything. 
The  girls  at  the  writing  machines  clicked  more  slowly,  their 
eyes  wandered  more  and  more,  their  hands  brushed  back  their 
hair  with  a  new  hope.  ...  A  last  spurt  puckered  their  brows 
and  their  lips:  then  the  power  died.  The  boys  at  the  tall 
ledger  tables  twisted  legs  about  their  chairs  and  stopped  sharp 
ening  pencils.  They  whistled  sudden  snatches  of  a  tune. 
Wide  ranges  of  conversation  sprang  up.  Talk  wreathed  forth 
until  girls  in  the  new  silence  of  their  machines  addressed  each 
other  clear  across  the  room:  the  men  in  the  ledger  alcoves 
laughed  at  jokes  given  forth  from  the  front  windows.  .  .  . 

Sudden,  like  the  last  spin  of  a  top,  a  tremor  ran  through 
the  office,  work  toppled  dead  on  its  side. 

Girls  were  in  hats:  cigarettes  sprouted  on  the  lips  of  the 
boys.  Overhead  in  the  sudden  noise  of  stillness,  the  new  mood 
of  the  machines.  Life  was  out  of  the  window.  In  groups 
of  two  and  three  the  girls  were  sucked  away  to  it:  the  boys 
followed,  with  noses  forward  and  dragging  limbs. 

The  streets  were  cauldrons  that  had  overflowed.  The 
sluices  of  pent  life  emptied  upon  them.  Work  had  banked 
these  fires:  routine  had  stifled  them  to  smoke.  Now,  the  coals 
were  strewn  low  and  long.  A  draft  of  release  whipped  down 
the  channeling  gutters.  There  was  flame.  The  houses 
brooded  like  disused  ovens,  storing  their  heat  and  their  rust. 

The  vision  of  this  was  a  searing  stripe  on  David's  mind  as 
he  lay  within  the  night:  was  a  dark  band  as  he  awoke  upon 
the  morning.  He  was  naked  in  bed.  His  strong  arms  were 
thrown  up  like  an  infant's.  His  open  palms  pillowed  his  neck. 
As  he  breathed,  the  muscles  in  his  abdomen  rolled  gently. 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  41 

He  was  a  powerful  boy,  with  white  skin  and  a  wave  of  golden 
hair  upon  his  body.  He  had  pulled  his  bed  directly  beneath 
a  dormer  window.  The  sun  bronzed  his  head.  The  clear  soft 
strength  of  his  face  came  out  in  this  sleepy  light.  David 
dozed  and  prodded  his  senses  into  getting  up.  He  was  strong 
and  refreshed  in  the  morning.  He  thought  of  work  as  a 
contest  and  knew  he  would  win.  The  Hell  of  labor  was  up 
stairs  where  the  men  sweated  in  open  shirts  rolling  cigars,  and 
he  had  seen  the  women  fold  back  their  waists  till  the  tawny 
dust  grimed  the  skin  of  their  breasts.  He  was  in  this  world's 
Purgatory.  In  the  quiet  offices  beyond,  the  inner  ones  bound 
by  invisible  threads  of  gold  to  the  ease  of  high  houses  in  the 
winter  and  the  distant  smile  of  the  mountains,  was  Paradise 
and  was  the  goal.  David  thought  that  he  had  given  up  the 
free  fields  of  his  home  and  that  now,  already  he  was  set  on 
winning  them  back.  This,  it  seemed  to  him,  was  droll.  He 
wondered  why  he  had  thrown  the  fields  away,  when  so  evi 
dently  the  promise  of  the  City  was  to  be  able  to  revisit  them. 
He  wondered  why  he  had  done  so.  He  thought  of  Anne,  who 
perhaps  was  forgetting  the  scent  of  the  clover.  He  recalled 
that  if  he  hurried  with  his  bath,  he  would  have  more  time 
at  breakfast — more  time  to  be  with  Anne.  His  long  legs  were 
out  of  the  bed. 

It  was  hard  to  pierce  to  Anne.  Both  he  and  she  were  em 
barrassed  with  their  desire  to  speak  freely.  They  were  shy. 
One  morning  she  said  to  him: 

"Mr.  David,  if  you  would  want  to,  why  don't  you  com? 
back  and  I'll  cook  you  your  dinner." 

He  thanked  her  and  refused. 

"You've  worked  enough,  I  think." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind." 

She  had  not  pressed  her  offer.  He  had  commanded  his 
pleasure.  So  it  must  be  her  pleasure.  She  was  that  sort  of 
woman. 


42  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

"What  do  you  do  in  the  evenings?"  he  asked  her. 

"Oh,  not  much.  I'm  always  to  bed  early.  It's  too  hot 
for  dancing,  ain't  it?"  She  hurried  through  her  answer. 

David  suddenly  knew  that  when  his  sickened  will  and  sting 
ing  senses  came  to  the  house  at  night,  she  was  there  also! 
While  he  lay  awake  in  his  bed,  a  wall  was  between  his  naked 
ness  and  hers.  It  was  both  painful  and  sweet  to  think  of 
this. 

The  black  t  heat  rolled  with  enforcement  through  the  City. 
Life  was  wet  fire.  A  murmur  of  anguish  was  the  breath  of 
the  night.  He  lay  wide-eyed,  dreaming.  The  air  was  a 
prison.  His  senses  yearned  toward  the  quiet  of  death  as  re 
lease  from  this  breath  of  the  world — from  these  fumes  of  a 
dead  sun.  He  was  under  surprise  when  it  knocked  at  the 
door. 

"Mr.  David,  I've  brought  you  a  cool  drink.  May  I  come 
in?" 

He  did  not  move.  He  did  not  reach  for  his  sheet.  Anne 
came  through  the  blackness  and  gave  him  a  glass.  He  gulped 
wet  coolth. 

"Thank  you — Anne." 

She  took  the  glass.  She  bent  dowh,  her  hair  was  a  wonder 
over  his  eyes.  A  wonder,  since  her  hair  was  hot  and  still  it 
was  good.  He  felt  her  moist  lips  on  his  chest.  .  .  .  There 
was  the  constant  spirit  of  the  house,  the  forbidding  intrusion 
of  knowing  that  he  was  a  guest  and  she  a  servant,  that  this  was 
evil.  .  .  .  Anne  was  gone. 

No  word  at  breakfast.  .  .  .  That  night  David  found  he  was 
awaiting  her  and  she  came.  His  sheet  was  over  him.  He 
took  the  glass  she  offered  and  placed  it  on  the  chair;  his 
arm  drew  her  down  till  she  sat  beside  him  on  the  bed.  ,  He 
felt  her  body  burning  under  her  cool  gown:  all  the  world 
was  distant,  so  that  the  house  was  distant  too,  and  for  once 
the  Deanes  were  in  the  mountains. 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  43 

"No,  Mr.  David.  .  .  ." 

He  laughed.  He  was  scornful:  the  Deanes  were  in  the 
mountains. 

A  hot  black  sea  was  the  world,  rolling  away.  His  bed  rolled 
upon  it;  only  his  bed  was. above  the  sea.  It  was  haven.  It 
was  haven  for  him  and  his  woman.  He  drew  her  down,  and 
his  mouth  sought  her  lips,  her  neck.  His  mouth  felt  the  wide 
loveliness  of  her  body.  It  was  distant  still,  there  was  a  gown 
between  them.  The  gown  was  wide  as  a  world.  Her  body 
was  growing  great,  until  it  was  another  sea  that  would  cool 
him.  It  was  a  sea  of  fire,  but  the  fire  was  white  and  would 
cool  him.  It  was  needful  so. 

She  struggled.  .  .  .  Sudden  she  came  of  her  own  broken 
and  sick  will.  Their  wills  were  healing  each  other.  She  was 
willfuller  now  than  he.  She  held  his  head  in  her  arms,  her 
flesh  was  all  about  him.  Her  gown  was  gone. 

He  found  that  she  was  lying  beside  him,  crumpled:  holding 
herself  away.  He  found  she  was  a  little  bruised  woman  with 
bruised  little  breasts  and  hair  tangled,  knotted  in  heat.  He 
found  he  was  moving  away  from  her. 

He  found  that  the  night  was  coming  back.  It  was  scornful 
and  triumphant.  It  waved  onward,  and  upon  its  bitter  burn 
ing  waves  came  the  Deanes  who  were  no  longer  in  the  moun 
tains.  There  they  were  in  the  room.  A  vast  febrile  room. 
Filled  with  the  City  and  its  desolate  shadows,  filled  with  the 
Deanes.  Huddling  diminished  in  a  corner  a  guest  and  a 
servant. 

He  spoke  to  her:  "Anne." 

She  answered:  "Yes,  Mr.  David,"  so  he  knew  she  knew  this 
also. 

At  breakfast  the  sweet  silence  of  restraint.  A  Puritan's 
vow  in  the  withdrawn  eyes  of  each  other. 

But  the  heat  did  not  stop:  nor  the  wearing  away  of  will 
and  the  rebellion  of  nerves.  Anne  came  again.  It  had  noth- 


44  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

ing  to  do  with  the  wide  remainder  of  their  lives.  It  was 
somnambular.  She  was  the  soul  of  the  heat — the  gladness  of 
it.  So  they  got  to  be  happy  together  and  not  to  mind  very 
much.  They  got  to  laughing  and  to  forgetting.  There  were 
never  many  words.  Breakfast  was  the  break  from  a  dream. 

David  deciphered  her  silence. 

"I  am  wiser  than  you  believe.  I  am  wiser  than  you,"  it 
said.  "I  am  thankful  for  you.  You  need  not  worry.  Oh,  I 
am  very  thankful." 

All  one  week,  Anne's  step  on  the  threshold  of  his  room 
was  gone.  David  fumbled  in  bare  feet  along  the  tunneled 
hall.  His  flat  palm  felt  her  door.  It  was  locked.  The  end — 
sweet  end  of  unreplenishment. 

No  word  further:  no  glance  toward  the  past  to  open  it  once 
more.  .  .  . 

They  were  really  there — the  Deanes!  A  cool,  bright  night 
with  stars  crushed  above  the  crude  wave  of  the  city  streets. 
They  had  traveled  through  that  night  and  those  stars  for 
this  city.  They  were  there  in  the  early  morning. 

They  came  in  discussiveness  and  noise,  as  a  luxurious  gift 
comes  wrapped  in  crackling  paper.  Once  unbundled,  they 
were  rather  silent.  David  sensed  an  unease  and  discomfort 
in  their  coming — a  token  of  what  happened  in  souls  of  their 
kind  when  they  were  taken  even  for  a  day  from  the  rounds 
of  their  habits.  David  observed  with  what  swift  recupera 
tion  they  merged  into  the  imprint  of  their  house;  how  theif 
house  seemed  to  sigh  and  settle  with  the  recapture  of  its  soul. 
Sudden,  there  was  David,  completely  strange,  dizzily  away: 
with  the  memory  of  his  amour  an  unbelievable,  discreditable 
dream. 

He  watched  Anne  with  the  other  servants  that  had  come 
sink  swiftly  into  the  cloud  of  servience:  lose  her  charm  and 
her  sex:  dwindle  in  an  instant  te  be  an  appendage  of  her 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  45 

mistresses,  an  inflection  of  the  wishes  of  these  reigning  women. 
By  the  shock  of  this  a  sort  of  osmosis  went  on  in  David. 

He  found  himself  partly  identified  with  Anne:  had  they 
not  been  one  together? — and,  so,  diminished,  humbled.  An 
other  part  of  him  flung  her  off  and  merged  with  his  cousins, 
his  flesh  and  blood;  become  Anne's  remote  and  indifferent 
master. 

He  stood  there  awkward  while  the  process  shredded  and 
dazed  him.  Between  these  warring  halves  of  himself,  he  fell 
away  from  the  sharp  social  trial  of  the  moment — the  need  of 
fronting  these  women.  His  aunt  took  note  of  a  vacancy  about 
him. 

"Well,  David,  it's  been  a  long  time  waiting  to  know  you." 
She  added  to  herself:  "He's  stupid." 

Her  second  daughter,  Lois,  supplemented  her  aunt  as  one 
generation  should  another:  "I  think  he's  dear";  she  looked  at 
him  keenly,  "but  what's  bewildering  him  so?" 

She  came  very  close  to  him,  and  held  out  her  hand.  "I'm 
awfully  glad  to  know  you,  David."  He  took  her  hand  so 
patiently,  that  she  held  up  her  lips,  "We're  cousins,"  she  ex 
plained  and  she  laughed. 

With  great  seriousness,  he  kissed  her  and  liked  her. 

Muriel,  who  was  nineteen  and  three  years  older  and  wiser 
than  Lois,  watched  the  little  challenge  of  acquaintance,  smiled 
sourly,  busied  herself  with  her  bags. 

"Well,"  she  said,  searching  for  her  powder  puff.  "I  sup 
pose  it  has  been  frightfully  hot?" 

Mr.  Deane  had  been  quarreling  with  the  coachman  about 
the  fare:  his  own  carriage  was  not  yet  in  service.  He  puffed 
into  the  room.  David  saw  and  at  length  realized  how  changed 
he  was,  in  the  true  setting  of  his  wife  and  daughters.  He 
scarcely  noticed  David. 

"Got  everything?"  he  asked  excitedly.  "Nothing  lost?  My! 
it's  hot  I  That  robber  robbed  me.  Lauretta — you  have  the 


46  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

keys?  I  must  run  along.  Where's  breakfast?"  He  mopped 
his  brow,  he  paced;  and  David  wondered  whether  the  execu 
tive  task  of  shipping  his  family  to  New  York — or  some  obscure 
disturbance — was  the  thing  too  much  for  him. 

David  stood  quietly  apart.  He  unstrapped  bags;  untied 
boxes;  stacked  rugs  and  tennis  rackets  into  obtrusive  corners. 
They  let  him  work  for  them,  quite  as  they  let  Anne  work. 
He  found  himself  dwindling  from  them:  he  wondered  why 
he  minded  performing  these  casual  tasks.  He  found  he  did 
not  care  for  this  identity  with  Anne,  although  a  part  of  him 
knew  it  existed  only  in  himself.  He  looked  at  her — not  even 
in  her.  She  was  very  moist  and  humble  and  unattractive  in 
her  black  skirt  and  her  white  apron  tucked  high  in  her  corsage. 
He  could  not  separate  her  body  from  that  apron — chiefly  from 
that  attitude  of  serving.  He  wanted  to  say  to  himself  "Well— * 
she  served  me!"  He  wanted  to  be  high-handed,  cynical,  in 
different.  He  managed  to  lose  all  sense  of  this  toiling,  nodding 
girl  as  one  with  the  sweet  woman  he  had  held  in  his  arms 
and  held  with  all  his  body.  There  he  was,  scrutinizing  Lois: 
her  smart  slimness;  the  perfect  abandon  of  her  body  not  to 
him  but  to  her  own  position.  His  cousin  wore  a  bright  blue 
satin  dress,  simple  and  short  and  trim.  Her  corsage  was 
caught  up  in  white  lace: — the  scheme  was  near  enough  to  the 
livery  of  Anne  to  make  the  difference  crying.  Her  half-bare 
arms  were  white.  Strangely  white.  David  guessed  what 
pains  she  must  have  been  to  so  to  keep  them.  She  had  taken 
off  her  hat ;  her  golden  hair  fell  daintily — unmoist,  immaculate 
— upon  her  forehead,  and  in  crisp  ringlets  down  her  neck. 
She  had  a  tender  smile  that  seemed  to  take  one  in  and  laugh 
one  out.  Her  features  were  smiling,  soft  and  round,  and  were 
yet  tinged  with  an  astute  concern  that  contradicted  their  be 
nevolence.  The  white-slippered  feet  and  the  white-stockinged 
legs  were  an  increased  offsetting  flirt  of  humor  to  her  serious 
brown  eyes.  The  attentive  quality  in  Lois  was  her  grace,  her 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  47 

tender  aloofness,  her  sixteen  years  full  of  pride.  David  found 
himself  quite  willing  to  deny  his  amour  with  a  servant. 

Anne  needed  to  come  up  to  him  and  ask  him: 

"Will  you  be  going  downtown  to-day,  Mr.  David?  Or  will 
you  be  here  to  lunch?" 

"I'm  going  downtown,"  he  said  sharply.  He  looked  in  her 
face  and  found  the  soft  intimate  sense  of  her  offensive:  a  too 
cloying  sweetness  for  his  stomach.  On  the  heels  of  his  dis 
covery  a  great  remorse  and  disgust  at  himself.  It  drove  him 
toward  a  demonstration  of  bravado :  he  needed  almost  to  make 
clear  to  this  searing  presence  of  the  Deanes  that  he  owed  Anne 
much,  was  more  like  Anne  than  like  them,  and  was  aware  of 
it.  This  too  was  checked,  left  him  dangling. 

Lois  caught  him  looking  her  through,  and  came  over  to 
where  he  worked  at  a 'stubborn  bag:  she  said:  "Let  me  help 
you,  David," 

"No  need,"  he  said  with  a  tone  studiedly  similar  to  the 
one  he  had  addressed  to  Anne.  There  was  balm  in  that.  It 
seemed,  however,  not  to  disturb  Lois :  and  Anne  was  out  of  the 
room. 

His  cousin  helped  to  the  extent  of  loosing  one  strap.  She  sat 
on  the  gladstone  and  was  suddenly  languid,  and  forgot.  .  .  . 

With  Lois  cornering  his  eye,  David  found  he  had  the  whole 
group  in  his  mind.  Mr.  Deane  was  still  at  paces  on  the  floor, 
calling  for  breakfast.  David  was  amazed  at  his  insignificance 
in  this  concise  room.  His  wife  paid  him  no  attention.  Twice 
she  brushed  against  him,  crossing  the  room:  twice  also  she 
brushed  against  a  bag.  Her  reactions  were  one.  Muriel  went 
up  to  him  and  said:  "Father,  let  me  have  about  twenty  dol 
lars  more,  will  you?."  Mr.  Deane's  pacing  slowed  against  this 
new  ordinance.  He  stopped,  snapped  the  bills  from  his  wallet 
and  handed  them  to  his  daughter.  Muriel  was  at  the  moment 
looking  over  her  shoulder,  giving  an  order  to  Anne.  She  did 
not  stop.  Her  eyes  did  not  go  with  her  receiving  hand.  Mr. 


48  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

Deane  resumed  his  pacing.  His  wife  said,  half  in  the  air:  "In 
a  moment,  Anthony,  we  shall  be^  iijj^^^F6  Anne."  Lois, 
musing  in  her  corner,  suddenly  flareu  ioiUif  "Father,  you  are 
making  me  nervous  with  your  walking  like  a  lion  in  his  cage!" 
But  at  once  her  face  went  soft,  she  forgot  what  she  had  said. 
Then  her  father  had  left  the  room,  following  the  bright  dis 
covery  that  Anne  had  left  before  him. 

David  felt  it  was  time  to  be  off  for  downtown.  He  went  to 
his  aunt. 

"Good-by." 

"I  hope,  David,  you  don't  squander  your  money  at  those 
expensive  lunch  places." 

David  said  he  did  not.  He  did  not  add  he  was  afraid  of 
them.  He  went  to  Lois. 

"Good-by." 

"Good-by,"  she  smiled.     "Come  back  soon." 

He  went  to  Muriel.    She  looked  up  surprised. 

"Oh,"  she  said.     "Oh.     Good-by." 

And  the  revelation  came  to  David.  These  four  persons  were 
not  a  group:  in  no  true  sense  were  they  a  group.  The  families 
that  he  had  known  were  strictly  groups.  .  .  .  Even  his  own, 
though  in  his  father's  days  the  rhyme  of  it  was  pain.  Some 
single  rhythm,  some  common  color  composed  them.  Here  were 
four  persons.  Their  spirits  had  nothing  to  do  one  with  an 
other.  He  was  quite  sure  their  spirits  were  not  aware  one  of 
another.  They  spent  one  man's»money:  they  obeyed  one  wo 
man's  orders:  they  lived  at  the  behest  of  a  sort  of  mutual 
complacency  together,  sharing  the  pleasures  that  were  in  need 
of  union  for  support.  But  they  were  not  united.  David  felt 
it,  touching  their  fingers,  as  he  said: 

"Good-by." 

It  gave  him  a  strange,  even  a  sick  feeling:  as  if  he  had 
seen  a  man  devouring  his  own  hands. 


IV 


IT  was  voluptuous  for  Tom  Rennard  after  the  trees  and  the 
birds  to  give  himself  once  more  into  the  bond  of  his  pro 
fession.  Through  the  free  woods  he  walked  in  manacled 
anarchy:  through  the  City's  thralldom  he  walked  free.  He 
plunged  into  work.  He  touched  the  tasks  of  the  approaching 
season,  knew  it  would  be  his  best,  measured  his  dominion 
above  success  and  was  glad  like  a  bird  perched  on  top  of  its 
cage.  He  prepared  a  brief  for  a  case  months  away  from  trial: 
he  played  with  the  strategy  of  an  appeal  in  a  suit  not  yet 
argued.  In  the  brash  nights  of  the  refitting  City  he  sat  in 
hotel  lobbies  and  let  his  mind  cut  clear  through  the  flaccid 
provincial  crowds.  He  journeyed  uptown  to  a  baseball  game: 
drank  in  the  rawness  of  the  joy  of  others  in  a  ball  swiftly 
caught  and  clouted:  let  his  heart  fill  with  the  tang  of  the 
game's  intricate  and  lissome  grace  against  the  sprawling  pleas 
ure  of  the  mindless.  Once  more  New  York,  an  atmosphere, 
lay,  swirled,  clouded  and  shone  around  him.  Then  he  shut  his 
desk,  an  early  afternoon,  and  went  to  see  his  sister. 

Her  studio  was  unfashionable  in  location.  It  was  the  top 
floor  of  a  crumbling  red-brick  house  in  the  moiled  middle 
East  Side  of  the  city.  It  was  east  of  Murray  Hill,  west  of 
Stuyvesant  Square:  the  elevated  trains  snorted  their  cinders 
not  far  from  her  flowered  window.  Cornelia  began  to  make 
money  and  her  habitation  blossomed.  Persian  shawls  appeared 
in  appropriate  corners:  new  rash  adventures  in  color  out  of 
Paris  gladdened  the  white  walls:  slender  vases  came  from 
exile  in  Chatham  Square.  Tom  called  the  place  his  refuge 
from  the  city. 

49 


50  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

"Hello,"  she  said.  "I  am  glad  you  came.  I'm  lazy  this 
afternoon."  Tom  folded  his  coat  away  in  the  little  bedroom. 
It  had  the  air  of  a  cell.  The  white  walls  were  bare,  the  white 
iron  bed  was  narrow;  a  small  pack  of  books  stood  in  the 
corner  of  the  floor. 

"You  take  it  easy,"  he  said,  already  at  the  task,  "and  I'll 
prepare  you  some  Turkish  coffee.  Have  you  any  of  that 
orange  essence  left?" 

He  was  adept  and  he  needed  to  ask  no  further  questions. 

They  settled  and  sipped  and  talked.  Cornelia  was  on  the 
couch.  Tom  squatted  on  the  floor.  Both  of  them  had  lighted 
cigarettes. 

"Well,  what  adventure?"  she  asked. 

She  looked  more  than  the  three  years  older  that  she  was. 
She  wore  an  unembroidered  smock — a  dull,  muslin  drab.  Her 
feet  were  sandaled.  Her  hair  was  drawn  tight  back  over 
her  head,  where  it  could  not  interfere  with  work.  Her  eyes 
were  soft  in  the  harsh  angles  of  her  face. 

"I  was  on  a  vacation,  Cornelia.  You  know  that  means  that 
I  to'bk  care  nothing  should  happen  to  me." 

She  laughed.    "That  efficient  you're  not,  dear  boy." 

"Well,  there  was  no  semblance  of  adventure.  I  tramped  and 
drank  a  lot  of  glorious  milk  and  slept  nine  hours  a  night." 

"And ?" 

"And  swam  and  paddled."  Tom  wagged  his  head  with  the 
catalogue. 

"You  met  somebody  interesting?" 

He  stopped.    "How  do  you  know?" 

"You  always  do,  don't  you?  Who  was  it?  The  girl,  at 
last?" 

«No— not  the  girl.  And  you're  wrong.  Really,  I  had  a 
deliciously  dull  time." 

She  did  not  press  the  matter. 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  51 

"Daydon  says  I  ought  to  move  now  I've  won  that  prize.  He 
says  no  one  will  visit  a  studio  so  near  Third  Avenue." 

"Are  you  going  to?" 

"I  am  not." 

"I  am  glad,  Cornelia.  Just  because  you  have  begun  to 
have  money  is  no  reason  for  spending  it  all  on  rents." 

"That's  just  what  most  New  Yorkers  do,  is  it  not?" 

They  both  laughed,  and  were  silent. 

"What  you  said  has  a  lot  of  truth  in  it,"  Tom  spoke  at 
last.  And  his  sister  knew  he  had  pounced  on  her  observation 
as  a  text.  He  was  comfortable  now.  He  had  been  just  a  bit 
uneasy,  questioned  about  his  trip.  There  was  the  sign  of  a  re 
lease  from  nervousness  in  the  brightening  of  his  eyes  and  the 
slower  puff  of  his  cigarette — the  way  he  curled  up  his  legs, 
limbered  his  arms  and  began  to  talk.  Cornelia  watched 
him  with  a  vague  amusement  and  a  subtle  reservation.  She 
would  let  him  have  his  speech;  then  she  would  pin  him  back 
to  his  trip  and  the  thing  in  it  which  made  him  nervous.  In 
this  mood  she  listened. 

"Really,"  he  said,  "the  true  inwardness  of  New  York's  rising 
sky-line  has  been  the  passion  of  New  Yorkers  for  high  rents. 
Have  you  ever  thought  of  that?  What  a  handy  substitute  for 
other,  remoter  standards  they  have  found  in  the  price  of 
housing?  Of  course  the  gullible  talk  of  the  fact  that  New 
York  is  a  crowded  island.  They  forget  the  miles  of  dilapidated 
and  discarded  masonry  within  hail  of  their  stylish  towers.  Some 
day  the  historian  will  understand.  He  will  say  this:  'Money 
was  so  deep  their  worship  that  they  mis-prized  all  treasures  of 
life  which  did  not  blatantly  announce  it.  They  left  their  walls 
empty  of  beauty,  their  larders  empty  of  health,  their  houses 
empty  of  grace,  in  order  to  pay  high  rents  to  the  lords  of 
land.  These  fabulous  sums  were  the  pride  and  the  decoration 
of  their  lives.  The  height  of  New  York  rentals  and  the  high 


52  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

buildings  that  were  their  symbols  became  the  chief  expression 
of  Metropolitan  Art!"' 

He  laughed.    Cornelia  kept  silent. 

"The  historian  will  finish  in  this  tone:  'Surely  these  were 
a  foolish  people,  ripe  for  destruction/  " 

"Give  me  another  cigarette,  Tom."  She  was  resolved  not 
to  help  him  along.  Tom  came  to  silence.  He  felt  her  mood. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"You  had  better  look  out,  brother  mine.  You  could  easily 
get  to  be  a  typical  New  Yorker.  I  hate  talk." 

"What  I  said  wasn't  true?" 

"Yes.     But  it  was  talk." 

"Oh,  boo!     Don't  be  so  serious." 

"Weren't  you?" 

"Of  course  not.  I  was  speaking  the  truth.  Even,  I  was 
prophesying.  To  be  serious  at  such  a  game  is  to  risk  being 
a  fool." 

"Most  of  your  talk,  Tom,  is  a  side-stepping  of  something  in 
you  you  want  to  hide.  I  have  noticed  that." 

Cornelia  was  half  up  on  her  couch,  facing  him  straight. 
Now,  she  was  ready  to  pin  him.  "It's  a  bad  convenience, 
dear,"  she  went  on,  "putting  up  all  these  brittle  outer  observa 
tions  when  some  one  threatens  to  get  under  your  skin.  You 
do  it  so  well." 

She  smiled;  Tom  straightened  his  legs  and  met  her  gaze. 
He  knew  her  direction.  "You  wouldn't  understand,"  he  said. 

"Why?    Just  because  you  don't?" 

This  was  a  true  shot.     He  acknowledged  it. 

"Very  well,"  he  spoke  dryly.  "There  was  a  boy — a  mere 
boy — up  there.  From  New  England.  For  some  curious 
reason  he  upset  me.  I  don't  like  to  talk  about  him.  I  do  want 
to  see  him  again.  It's  all  rather  odd  because  he  was  really 
quite  dull.  We  had  damn  little  to  say." 

In  a  flash  Cornelia's  mood  changed.    Her  perceptions  had 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  53 

controlled  her — the  acute  and  angular  and  severe  in  her.  Now 
she  was  seated  toward  him  on  the  couch ;  it  was  as  if  dominion 
had  pass«d  over  to  her  eyes  that  were  large  on  her  brother. 
She  spoke  tenderly: 

"It's  not  a  girl  yet,  is  it,  Tom?" 

"You  know  it  never  is.  Girls  can't  disturb  me.  I  can 
master  women.  I  am  cool  and  sure  before  them.  But  so  I  was 
with  this — this  fellow.  Yet  it  seems,  as  I  look  back — quite 
irrationally,  mind  you — it  seems  as  if  we  had  had  a  contest 
and  he  had  won."  He  paused. 

"You  probably  talked  to  him — flaming  revolutionary  talk." 

Tom  shrugged. 

"And  he  was  shocked." 

"Precisely,"  Tom  burst  in.  "He  was  the  shocked  one — the 
dominated  one,  the  silenced.  Then,  why  this  foolish  desire  to 
see  him  again  and  throw  him  on  his  back?" 

"It  has  been  troubling  you?" 

"I  have  imaginary  conversations  with  him.  I  walk  up  and 
down  Broadway  with  him,  and  say:  'See!  what  a  Gehenna 
this  country's  greatest  city  is?'  I  take  him  to  theaters  and 
gloat  and  declare  'Trash,  eh?  They  call  it  art  in  New  York.' 
Even  at  my  office.  I  show  him  through  my  papers.  'All 
chicanery/  I  announce.  'That's  what  you  want  to  enter,  is 
it?7  I  shame  myself  before  him." 

"Think  it  over,  Tom,"  Cornelia  followed  his  silence.  "You 
should  be  able  to  find  out  the  thing  that  is  troubling  you." 

Tom  sat  a  bit  diminished  on  the  floor.  Sedulously  he 
flicked  the  ash  from  his  cigarette,  each  vestige  of  the  ash;  his 
fingers  close  to  the  hot,  red  tip.  He  looked  up: 

"This  chap  has  something  I  lack  and  want:  a  sort  of  pure 
sincerity.  He'll  go  far — and  be  miserable  as  the  devil." 

"Look  out!     Aren't  you  the  one  who  is  afraid  of  misery?" 

"True.    I  want  him  to  give  me  the  saving  treasure.    I  want 


54  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

to  give  him  the  saving  moderation.  Then  we  could  both  be 
saved." 

Cornelia  laughed.    "What  are  you  talking  about  now?" 

But  Tom  was  very  sober.  "He  is  all  wings.  He  has  no 
eyes.  He'll  dash  himself  against  the  sun.  I  am  all  eyes.  I 
see  everything.  But  where  are  my  wings?  I'll  freeze  to 
death  from  far  away,  seeing  the  sun." 

He  got  up.    He  paced  the  room. 

"Oh,  this  is  nonsense.  You  are  right.  I  liked  him  because 
he  was  a  naive,  country  lad.  I  was  afraid  I  had  hurt  his 
innocence " 

"You  are  dying  to  kill  it." 

Tom  stopped  and  faced  his  sister.  "That's  not  quite  fair, 
Cornelia.  Not  kill  it.  Steal  some  of  it,  perhaps." 

He  was  talked  out  of  his  mood.  He  was  light-hearted  and 
full  of  interest  for  a  thousand  things.  It  was  a  trifle  after 
all. 

So  they  played  through  the  afternoon,  they  went  arm  in  arm 
to  dinner,  they  spent  an  hour  in  a  terrace  with  liqueurs  before 
them.  They  talked  of  her  work  and  her  triumphs  and  the 
quaint  jealousies  of  artists.  All  this  because  it  was  his  greatest 
pride.  And  several  times  Tom  broke  out  in  admiration  of  New 
York:  in  praise  of  her  vast  largesses.  He  was  confident  and 
proud.  Cornelia  smiled  again — her  angular,  critical  self.  .  .  . 

Before  her  door  he  kissed  her  good-night. 

"We've  made  a  pretty  good  start,  from  Dahlton,  Ohio, 
haven't  we,  sister?  Pretty  good,  pretty  fair." 

She  changed  once  more  to  the  tender  part  of  her  nature: 
she  ignored  his  mood. 

"Good-night.  And  Tom — that  country  boy — bring  him  up 
some  late  afternoon?"  Her  eyes  alone  smiled.  Tom  startled, 
imperceptibly. 

"Surely,"  he  hurried  to  say.    "Surely  ...  if  I  see  him." 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  55 

Nature  cellared  its  profusion.  The  sap  of  life  was  sucked 
to  the  roots  of  things.  As  the  year  died,  the  house  of  the 
Deanes  came  to  life. 

Chests  gave  forth  finery  and  color.  Curtains  were  up, 
barring  the  archaic  sun:  dun  colors  were  away  from  the  florid 
chairs.  The  safe-vaults  let  go  their  silver  plate  and  their 
gold,  and  from  the  hot-houses  came  flowers.  Streets  were 
chill,  skies  were  mournful;  in  the  narrow  endless  purlieus  of 
the  disinherited,  of  the  nine-tenths,  began  the  hunger  for  coal. 
.  .  .  But  it  was  summer  in  the  City. 

The  position  of  David  was  straddling,  but  not  too  insecure. 
He  was  part  of  the  Deane  household.  How  goodly  a  part 
devolved  on  his  own  discretion.  If  he  made  himself  liked, 
there  was  no  comfortable  share  he  might  not  win.  He  was 
part  of  the  Deane  Company — the  Deane  machine  of  sub 
sistence.  A  small  and  trivial  part  with  a  distinction.  This 
he  did  not  feel  until  his  fellow-menials  later  had  ceased  feeling 
it  for  him.  In  his  low  place  there  was  always  the  seed  of  future 
sharing.  He  was  the  Boss's  nephew.  In  the  low  places  of 
the  others,  there  was  always  the  seed  of  permanence.  These 
were  the  Boss's  victims.  The  Boss  would  keep  them  victims 
if  he  could.  He  would  have  all  the  pretty  terms  of  a  century 
of  special  pleading  to  hallow  his  act.  But  surely  the  world 
was  a  smiling  place  for  David  Markand. 

"My  boy,"  said  Mr.  Deane,  "you  are  on  probation.  If  you 
prove  your  worth,  as  you  may  well  imagine,  I  will  be  glad. 
American  enterprise  is  the  home  of  the  free,  the  contest  of 
character  and  brains.  The  true  man  wins  the  prize.  And  of 
course,  I  don't  forget  who  you  are:  that  you  are  the  only  child 
of  my  dear  sister.  Nor  must  you,  my  boy.  I  have  no  sons 
of  my  own.'7 

Uptown  he  was  still  somewhat  the  stranger.  But  he  was  the 
friend  of  Lois  and  he  grew  confident.  They  liked  each  other. 
Different  dispensations  from  far  separate  sources  had  thrust 


56  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

them  close.  Now  both  of  them  stood  together  at  the  gate 
of  the  brilliant  world  Muriel  went  to  evening  after  evening. 
They  saw  Muriel  return,  full  of  tokens  of  its  splendor:  full  of 
weariness  and  hidden  joy,  full  of  pride  and  hidden  knowledge. 
David  meant  to  enter  the  gates  with  Lois.  In  the  waiting  it 
was  natural  that  they  talk,  hold  hands. 

She  would  have  said  that  she  found  him  interesting.  There 
was  her  own  life,  which  in  her  mind  lacked  quality.  It  was 
an  empty  atmosphere  occasionally  pierced  by  suns  and  fall 
ing  stars.  The  light  of  these  was  her  sustenance  and  was  rare. 
So  Lois  starved. 

She  would  have  said  that  he  was  easy  to  talk  to. 

In  the  conventional  sense  he  understood  nothing:  in  the 
sense  in  which  life  was  a  ruled  open  page  for  Muriel  and  her 
mother.  But  in  the  outlaw  sense  where  these  two  were  blind, 
he  understood  miraculously  well.  She  could  skip  the  roted 
things  of  the  world  in  talk  with  him,  dwell  on  the  stirring 
and  uncharted.  They  met  in  a  sort  of  reticence  about  the 
obvious.  Not  deliberately,  but  because  he  could  not  other 
wise  have  understood.  Two  persons  speaking  different  tongues 
could  live  on  elemental  planes.  They  could  convey  and  satisfy 
the  sense  of  hunger,  they  could  fight,  they  could  make  love. 
The  difficulty  might  come  when  they  attempted  to  dine  to 
gether,  to  quarrel  civilly,  or  to  get  married.  Here,  a  common 
set  of  words  was  needed. 

So  between  these  two.  Social  engagements,  family  tra 
ditions,  judgments  of  the  technique  and  manner  of  existence 
she  could  not  broach  with  him.  She  did  not  need  to.  Her 
school,  her  friends,  her  family  webbed  her  in  such  subjects. 
The  wider  ranges  that  Muriel  would  have  cut  through  as 
vague  became  their  meeting  place.  They  talked  about  life 
and  beauty  and  the  future.  She  was  sixteen  and  David  twenty. 
In  these  vast  fields  they  were  one  fledgling  age. 

They  were  often  alone  together.     The  room  on  the  third 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  57 

floor  that  faced  the  street  was  the  living-room  of  the  sisters. 
And  Muriel  was  usually  out:  and  the  parents  stayed  in  their 
own  quarters  below. 

Dinner's  end  was  release.  David  sat  there  uncomfortable 
and  Lois  sat  there  indifferent.  Mr.  Deane  had  few  words. 
He  was  weary  at  night.  What  energy  he  had  poured  into  the 
business  of  eating.  Mrs.  Deane  was  voluble  enough,  but  she 
needed  no  attentive  ears  and  she  had  none.  She  talked:'  her 
husband  ate:  her  daughters  spoke  low  together:  David  made 
his  shoulders  narrow  and  occasionally  straightened  with  a 
shock  when  his  aunt's  eyes  turned  on  him.  The  last  sip  of 
coffee  meant  the  last  moment  at  the  table  for  the  girls,  whether 
their  mother  was  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence  or  their  father 
was  asking  them  a  question.  In  this  case,  the  question  could 
be  curtly  answered  in  the  process  of  exit. 

"Come,  David,"  from  Lois,  "you're  finished,  aren't  you?" 

If  at  first  David  was  reluctant  to  leave  so  suddenly,  he 
learned  that  nothing  different  was  expected  of  him.  Mr. 
Deane  lighted  a  cigar.  Often  he  was  left  alone  to  smoke  it. 
He  sat,  his  body  folded  and  heavy  in  his  chair,  his  eyes  folded 
and  heavy  behind  smoke.  Anne  came  and  went,  clearing  the 
table.  He  was  unperturbed.  His  soft  mouth  wreathed  and 
pouted:  occasionally  he  smacked  his  lips.  He  was  the  picture 
of  attainment.  In  his  empty  gaze,  in  the  lack-reflex  slumber  of 
his  muscles,  in  the  dim  movements  of  the  heavy  smoke,  there 
was  a  gross  Buddhistic  character.  It  was  clear  that  attain 
ment  in  his  American  faith  tended  not  toward  heaven,  but 
toward  a  sort  of  flatulent  Nirvana. 

Meantime,  Mrs.  Deane  was  upstairs,  under  a  lamp,  reading 
a  novel;  and  when  her  husband  did  not  eventually  shake  him 
self,  with  a  slow  and  sleepy  evolution,  to  his  club,  he  was  in 
bed  before  she  closed  her  book. 

Often  members  of  the  plenteous  family  of  Mrs.  Deane  came 
to  dine.  But  the  atmosphere  of  the  table  was  ample  enough 


58  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

to  embrace  them.  There  was  the  same  dull  air,  charged  with 
the  vocal  passion  of  Mrs.  Deane  and  the  sharp  reserves  of  her 
two  daughters.  Only  one  sister — a  Miss  Dikes — could  match 
the  commanding  Lauretta.  They  were  profoundly  sisters: 
when  she  was  at  table,  the  currents  of  air  were  shifted  rather 
than  changed.  Always,  Lois  and  David  were  willingly  excused 
after  dinner.  And  Muriel  managed  often  to  be  out  when  her 
relatives  were  there.  Her  mother  scolded  and  occasionally 
wept  at  this  disloyalty  in  her  child.  But  the  child  was  already 
stronger  than  the  mother.  Muriel  seldom  quarreled  back. 
She  sneered  and  her  eyes  flashed :  when  she  spoke,  it  told. 

Upstairs  David  reached  for  a  book. 

"You  have  your  homework  to  do,  I  s'pose?" 

Lois  smiled  and  nodded.  "Oh,  yes.  .  .  .  But  I'm  not  going 
to  do  it." 

"You'll  not  get  your  certificate  if  you  don't  watch  out." 

"And  what  good  would  it  do  me,  if  I  did?  .  .  .  We're  going 
to  talk."  She  snatched  his  book.  .  .  .  "Unless,  of  course,  you 
are  more  interested  in  The  Banking  System  of  the  United 
States:' 

"Lord,  no!"  David  laughed. 

They  sat  together  on  the  broad,  cushioned  couch  whose  gay 
blue  and  dull  gold  were  a  telling  contrast  to  the  dull  blue  and 
bright  gold  of  the  mother's  room  below. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  when  you  become  rich?"  she 
asked  him. 

He  looked  at  her.  She  asked  him  this  as  once  before  he  had 
said  to  her:  "When  are  you  going  to  get  married?"  She  had 
answered:  "I  am  not  going  to  get  married,  perhaps."  He  had 
laughed  her  denial  away. 

So  now:  "I  am  not  going  to  get  rich,  perhaps."  And  there 
was  she,  scoffing  at  him,  holding  back  her  head  and  saying: 
"Please,  do  be  serious,  David ! " 

He  was.    He  began  to  think  aloud. 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  59 

"Not  everybody  gets  rich." 

This  had  no  effect  on  her.  As  his  silence  marked  his  words 
as  her  answer,  she  shook  her  head  with  a  faint  impatience. 

"I  know.  But  what's  that  to  do  with  us?  You're  my 
cousin,  aren't  you?  You're  our  sort.  You're  in  Daddie's 
business." 

"What  sort  don't  get  rich,  Lois?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know."  She  looked  at  him  as  if  he  were  stupid. 
"You  ought  to  know,  better  than  I.  You  see  'em  all  around 
you  at  Daddie's  business." 

She  also  had  been  set  to  thinking.  "How  are  they  different 
from  us?"  she  asked.  Then:  "Father  says  they  simply  aren't 
as  clever.  Most  of  them  drink  too  much:  and  have  packs 
of  children:  and  don't  bathe  very  often.  I  guess  it's  all  these 
things." 

"It  must  be.  But  you  can't  really  see  much  difference. 
Of  course,  you.  You're  different.  You're  a — why,  you'd  die, 
you  couldn't  have  been  born,  anywhere  else.  But  I  work 
with  five  other  chaps  in  the  shipping  office,  and  they're  just 
like  me." 

I  Lois  laughed.  "What  nonsense.  They're  not!  You're 
much  nicer."  She  was  giggling  in  foretaste  of  the  wicked  truth 
she  was  about  to  utter,  "you're — I'm  sure  you're  much,  much 
cleaner." 

She  was  like  a  pricking  rose  under  his  face,  laughing  there 
on  the  couch.  David  resolved  to  be  angry. 

"That's  rotten  of  you,  Lo.    You're  no  democrat." 

"Of  course,  I'm  not.    I'm  a  Republican." 

David,  enjoying  his  indignation  and  unconsciously  aware 
of  the  excuse  it  gave  him,  reached  for  her  wrists. 

"Don't!"  he  commanded. 

"You  are!" 

He  pulled  her  to  him,  and  put  his  arms  around  her  waist. 
He  said:  "Stop  making  fun  of  people."  Then  he  kissed  her. 


60  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

Lois  stopped  laughing.  She  was  very  still.  Her  eyes 
glistened. 

"Do  you  think,  if  you  hadn't  been  nicer,  and  cleaner  and 
everything,  I'd  let  you  kiss  me?"  She  jumped  up  and  away. 

He  liked  her  intimacy.  It  flattered  him.  He  did  not  wish 
to  tell  her  of  his  work  at  Mr.  Devitt's,  and  how  easily  he 
might  have  stayed  there  long  and  forever.  And  she  liked  his 
reticence,  feeling  its  power.  She  liked  the  veiled  promise  of 
pleasure  and  strength  that  he  suffused  from  all  of  his  big 
being.  It  frightened  her. 

She  was  seated  as  far  away  from  him  as  she  could  manage. 
Her  bare  elbows  were  on  her  knees  and  her  chin  was  cupped  in 
her  hands.  The  pressure  upward  faintly  distorted  her  soft 
mouth:  one  corner  was  open  and  two  teeth  bit  white  and  hard 
against  the  lip.  Her  throat  tremored  with  her  amusement;  the 
rose  mesh  of  her  waist  fell  forward  in  suggestion  of  the  warm 
swell  of  her  girlish  bosom.  David  believed  that  she  was 
purring.  He  saw  her  teeth  biting  their  hardness  into  the  blush 
of  her  lips:  he  saw  how  smooth  and  round  her  arm  was.  He 
said: 

"You  let  me  kiss  you  because  I've  a  right  to."  He  was 
aware  of  the  retreat  in  his  words.  ".  .  .  because  we're  cousins." 

She  merely  lifted  her  face  a  bit,  as  if  he  were  stirring  away. 
"All  right.  We're  going  to  play  now  that  we  are  not  cousins. 
We  are  just  you  and  me,  do  you  hear?  So  you  mayn't  kiss 
me  anymore." 

Already  he  was  forward.  The  game  started.  The  goal 
was  implicit  with  them  both.  In  a  fortnight's  time,  David 
had  won  his  kiss.  He  was  very  sure  that  Lois  was  very  lovely: 
he  was  almost  sure  that  she  did  not  return  his  kisses  because 
he  was  unworthy.  .  .  . 

David  sat  at  his  long  table  in  the  office,  lost  in  a  maze  of 
figures  which  gave  a  different  answer  each  time  he  questioned 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  61 

them.  He  was  languidly  certain  the  figures  were  laughing  at 
him,  held  him  in  contempt.  About  him  yellow  pine,  hard 
human  bustle.  He  looked  up  through  the  mist  of  his  discom 
fort;  he  saw  above  him  a  slender  and  sleek  young  man  with  a 
smile  on  thick  lips. 

"My  name  is  Duer  Tibbetts.    You're  Markand,  aren't  you?" 

David  was  not  sure  whether  to  keep  his  seat.  He  was 
twisted  in  indecision. 

"I  am  a  cousin  of  your  aunt,  I  work  over  there  under  Mr. 
Herding  in  the  Cashier's  Office.  I  have  just  come  back  from 
two  weeks  in  Virginia.  I  was  told  to  look  you  up  and  make 
you  feel  at  home." 

For  the  pause,  he  stood  there  a  bit  ill-at-ease  himself. 

"I'll  come  round  at  noon,  and  we'll  go  to  lunch."  He  was 
gone. 

David  had  the  sense,  walking  through  the  streets,  of  a  young 
man  marvelously  sure  and  hard  and  clever  for  his  years.  He 
gave  forth  the  slightest  word  as  a  pronouncement. 

"The  very  hottest  weather's  over,"  he  declared.  "Greibeck's 
is  a  great  cafe.  You  must  go  there  often.  I  discovered  it  last 
year,  one  day  I  was  lunching  with  Mr.  Farnam — H.  L.  Farnam 
of  The  Liberty  Trust.  Always  go  downstairs.  There  are 
women  upstairs.  Downstairs  is  the  place  for  talking  business." 

Duer  Tibbetts  thrust  the  long  printed  card  under  his  nose 
and  then  told  him  what  to  eat.  He  ordered  as  if  he  were  in  a 
great  hurry.  He  drank  beer  with  his  meat.  "Don't  you  want 
anything  to  drink?"  he  asked  as  if  unwilling  to  believe  in  any 
organic  deficiency  in  his  new  friend.  He  called  the  waiter  by 
his  Christian  name — but  never  looked  at  him. 

"We  must  get  to  be  friends,"  he  announced.  "Don't  bother 
about  the  boys  in  your  office.  They're  not  our  sort.  Stick 
to  work.  .  .  .  Stick  to  work  and  stick  to  your  uncle.  He's  a 
prince — a  prince,"  he  chanted  with  emotion. 

"I've  been  here  three  years.     Since  I  was  sixteen.     No 


62  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

college  nonsense  for  me.  I'm  assistant  cashier.  You'll  find  the 
old  man  is  hard,  but  he  is  just.  Yes,  he  is  that.  But  he  has 
his  silent  little  ways  of  pushing  you  along." 

For  the  first  time,  he  raised  his  eyes  and  David  met  them. 
He  liked  him  better.  So  this  Duer  Tibbetts  was  to  be  his 
friend?  As  soon  as  he  began  again  to  talk  with  his  eyes  once 
more  down,  David  examined  him. 

He  seemed  engrossed  in  his  own  words.  He  paid  them 
out,  as  if  they  were  coin.  He  talked  with  a  certain  muscular 
emphasis  of  his  lips,  a  periodic  pointing  of  his  left  forefinger. 
His  forefinger  always  was  detached  from  the  others.  The 
rest  of  him  remained  immobile.  A  gold  chain  fell  straight 
from  his  lapel  to  his  coat  pocket.  His  hair  was  so  blond 
that  near  the  temples  and  behind  the  ears  it  imperceptibly 
faded  into  the  color  of  his  skin.  His  fingers  were  wider  at 
the  tips  than  at  their  base.  His  voice  was  high  pitched,  coarse 
grained,  mostly  a  monotone.  .  .  .  David  met  his  eyes  and 
liked  him  again. 

Tibbetts'  gaze  clinched  his  firmly;  almost  too  fixedly:  as 
if  his  eyes  lacked  the  pain  of  encounter.  They  were  lashless 
blue.  Tibbetts' had  the  soft  eyes  of  a  boy,  the  shallow  eyes 
of  a  man  who  has  not  ventured  where  the  boy's  eyes  yearned. 

David  turned  his  own  deep  uncertain  gaze  on  him:  in  the 
retreat  of  his  glance  and  the  veil  of  warmth  that  suffused  from 
the  contact  it  was  altogether  clear  which  was  in  truth  the  older 
of  these  two.  But  neither  David  felt  this,  nor  Duer  Tibbetts, 
steadfast  and  staring.  What  came  from  their  encounter  was 
David's  sense  of  respect  and  wonderment  for  Duer  Tibbetts, 
and  Duer  Tibbetts'  thrill  of  respect  and  wonderment  for  him 
self.  To  this  end  he  talked.  A  gentleman  can  boast  only  be 
fore  an  equal.  And  Tibbetts  was  a  gentleman,  if  for  no  other 
reason  because  he  felt  the  quality  of  David. 

"A  smart  chap.  You  know:  the  sort  who  get  on  in  the 
end,"  he  reported  to  his  father.  The  young  protege  and  the 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  63 

powerful  attorney  of  Deane  and  Company  discussed  the  new 
arrival.  They  said  many  things.  The  paramount  detail  that 
this  was  the  nephew  of  Mr.  Deane,  they  had  no  words  for: 
but  this  was  what  they  were  keenly  thinking.  The  sup 
pressed  thought  came  out  in  the  rhythmic  beat  of  Mr.  Tib- 
betts'  thumb  against  the  desk,  in  the  over-emphasis  of  his 
son  when  he  said  such  common  words  as  these:  "I  like  him. 
He  is  slow,  but  what  is  slowness?  You  never  can  tell  what's 
underneath.  The  fact  that  he  don't  know  much  now  shows 
merely  that  he  has  lived  in  a  little  town.  Lots  of  good  stuff 
has  come  from  little  towns." 

Now,  he  talked  lavishly  and  with  diligence  to  impress  David 
who  sat  passive,  trying  to  learn,  telling  himself  that  he  was 
learning.  He  talked  of  projects  and  profits,  of  Mr.  Deane's 
subtle  aggressiveness  and  of  the  Company's  prosperity.  He 
spoke  of  the  great  law-suit  which  his  father  had  won  for  the 
firm  from  the  Feddlesby  people.  He  spoke  of  a  swinging  figure 
that  had  gone  from  Deane  and  Company  to  help  elect  Mc- 
Kinley. 

"Measure  it  with  our  payroll,  if  you  want  to  feel  how  much 
it  was  to  give."  He  did  not  divulge  the  payroll.  He  said, 
"We"  when  he  meant  David  and  himself;  "We"  when  he 
meant  the  Company;  "We"  when  he  meant  America.  There 
was  a  deep  philosophy  in  this  confusion.  But  David  was 
still  far  from  grappling  with  it,  and  Tibbetts  did  not  dwell 
in  the  sphere  of  definition  and  reflection. 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  pointed  and  flushed  with  his  prophecy.  "We'll 
be  in  Cuba  in  less  than  a  year.  Don't  you  forget  it.  We've 
got  to  kick  the  Spaniards  out  and  go  in  ourselves.  Then,  we'll 
earn  enough  from  our  dormant  Las  Daciendas  plantations  to 
buy  up  every  relic  factory  in  Key  West.  It's  a  coup  that's 
certain." 

All  this  puzzled  David.  He  was  not  sure  whether  the  "We" 
who  must  kick  Spain  out  of  the  West  Indies  was  the  payroll  of 


64  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

Deane  and  Company:  or  whether  the  "We"  that  was  to  grow 
subsequently  rich  in  Las  Daciendas  was  the  citizenry  of 
America.  It  was  all  a  bewilderment  of  lines. 

The  weeks  of  his  residence  in  New  York  he  had  been  sed 
ulously  reading  the  papers  that  came  daily  to  his  uncle's 
house.  He  knew  that  America's  interest  in  Cuba  was  a  hu 
mane  one  grudgingly  forced  on  her.  Her  wrath  at  Spain 
and  her  forming  resolution  to  have  Spain  "out  from  her  back 
yard"  were  due  to  her  Christian  worry  for  starving  natives. 
The  impulse  of  brotherhood  was  quite  clear  in  the  papers. 
Yet  the  effect  upon  Business  seemed  equally  clear  in  the 
mind  of  Duer  Tibbetts.  Brought  together  in  David's  mind, 
these  two  clarities  precipitated  fog. 

He  went  away,  respecting  the  more  this  young  man  who 
saw  the  light  while  he  walked  in  darkness, 
f  Relief  of  Cuban  sufferers  and  relief  of  ravaged  tobacco 
plantations:  America's  crusade  for  love  and  a  great  Com 
pany's  contribution  to  the  coffers  of  the  Republican  Party: 
the  free  lists  of  business  and  the  advantage  of  being  a  nephew 
• — it  was  too  much  for  David's  untrained  mind.  For  David 
needed  to  "conform."  And  David  needed  to  admire. 

It  was  a  Sunday  afternoon.  The  room  where  David  sat,  the 
room  of  his  talks  with  Lois,  lay  in  the  languor  of  a  refracted 
sun.  It  faced  north.  David  could  see  the  full  rays  beat  in 
the  flaming  brick  and  the  warm  brown-stone  of  across  the 
street,  be  absorbed.  Here  was  a  low  vibrancy — strayed  resi 
dues  of  sunlight  that  had  lost  their  incandescence.  The  room 
had  its  compensation.  Lois'  gay  hand  was  over  it.  The  couch 
had  a  dappled  welcome  in  its  cushions:  "outrageous"  her 
mother  called  them.  A  strip  of  Japanese  brocade  laughed  on 
the  wall:  and  Lois'  desk,  with  its  bright  brass  knobs  and  its 
jolly  fluted  legs,  hinted  the  tempo  of  the  occasional  letters* and 
the  desultory  homework  of  its  owner. 

David  had  emerged  from  Sunday  dinner.    Rather  feebly  he 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  65 

wrestled  with  a  Sundaj'  paper.  He  was  alone  with  it  and  it  was 
winning.  The  article  was  discursive  and  plethoric.  It  dealt 
with  Tammany  Hall  and  the  imminent  Municipal  Election. 
The  City  had  just  become  the  Greater  City.  Manhattan  had 
swallowed  Brooklyn  and  Staten  Island.  Once  more  it  served 
as  the  shining  symbol  of  the  age:  for  it  had  gone  through  a 
merger,  and  it  was  superlative  in  size.  Now,  Tammany  was  at 
tempting  to  recapture  the  swollen  booty.  It  was,  according  to 
the  writer,  hopeless.  "Richard  Croker  is  back  from  Ireland 
and  his  horse  races.  But  he  will  find  only  a  ruin  and  a  name 
where  stood  the  corrupt  organization  that  netted  him  his 
millions."  Later:  "Mayor  Strong  is  beloved  of  the  rank  and 
file  of  the  people.  Under  him,  under  such  of  his  competent 
servants  as  Street  Commissioner  Colonel  Waring,  the  people 
have  learned  the  blessings  of  a  Reform  Administration.  They 
will  never  go  back  to  Tammany.  They  have  had  high  wages 
and  clean  streets,  better  conditions  in  their  tenements,  less  dis 
ease  and  a  low  death-rate.  They  have  understood.  Tammany 
means  misery  and  vice:  Tammany  means  the  seduction  of 
their  daughters  into  the  gutters  of  sin:  Tammany  means  all 
that  crime  and  corruption  mean.  Leave  it  to  the  people  of 
the  Greater  City  to  choose  a  successor  or  an  undoer  of  our 
Reform  Administration." 

This  was  all  clear.  But  the  general  terms  of  the  article 
bewildered  David.  Why,  in  the  face  of  the  obvious  con 
clusion,  this  note  of  frenzied  worry,  of  desperate  pleading?  The 
people  surely  could  be  left  to  choose  between  happiness  and 
squalor,  between  life  and  death.  And  why  these  paid  an 
nouncements  of  the  Tammany  candidates — these  arguments  in 
their  favor  alongside  indictments  which  made  it  probable  to 
David  that  Tammany  would  poll  no  single  vote?  The  article 
was  full  of  contradictions  of  the  sort  that  had  twisted  this  last 
month  of  his  life  into  a  question-mark.  Mr.  Croker,  breath 
lessly  returned  from  England,  found  his  Tammany  a  ruin  and 


66  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

a  dream:  yet  "efforts  will  be  made  to  elect  the  Citizen's  Union 
ticket  such  as  have  never  been  attempted  in  the  century-old 
fight  against  Tammany,  the  City's  incubus."  The  people  had 
enjoyed  three  years  of  almost  paradisal  amelioration;  yet 
"it  must  not  be  believed  that  Tammany's  old  tricks  of  getting 
the  people— appealing  to  their  hearts  and  stomachs — have 
been  forgotten."  Mayor  Strong  was  the  idol  of  the  poor; 
yet  "the  old  cry  of  corporate  control  and  a  'rich  men's  ticket' 
has  been  raised."  The  puzzles  spread  out  into  the  past. 
The  article  concluded  with  a  brief  historic  sketch  of  this 
Tammany-monster  that  in  ways  so  foul  brooded  upon  the 
people.  "The  study  of  Tammany  makes  it  clear,", one  sen 
tence  went,  "that  it  can  never  be  reformed.  The  Tiger  can 
not  change  his  stripes.  Tammany  means  and  has  ever  meant 
a  single,  evil  thing."  Yet,  to  David's  dumb  amazement! — 
several  of  the  old  crusaders  who  had  ousted  Tweed  and  killed 
Tammany  in  the  "sixties"  were  a  year  later  officers  in  Tam 
many  Hall!  Here  was  a  great  Reform  Governor  and  Presi 
dential  nominee — in  Tammany  Hall ;  and  the  present  presiding 
financial  genius  of  the  City's  projected  Subway  system.  While 
there,  in  a  corner  of  that  very  page,  heading  a  committee  of 
social  knights  who  had  pledged  body  and  bank  to  hold  Tam 
many  at  bay  was  the  man — yes,  the  very  same  name  of  the 
man — who  had  been  Tweed's  lawyer,  who  had  dej ended 
Tweed  when  he  was  caught  rifling  the  City. 

David  sat  struggling  with  all  this  as  well  as  the  spirit 
of  Sunday  dinner  permitted  him  to  do  so.  In  his  town,  he 
had  heard  disparagements  of  Tammany.  He  had  always  con 
founded  it  with  the  National  Democratic  Party.  He  remem 
bered  how  they  had  heckled  Jo  Cleary,  the  machinist  in  the 
shop  who  was  a  Democrat. 

"Well,  what  if  Tammany  is  Democratic?  Do  you  think 
your  bunch  of  silk-stocking  Republicans  is  any  better? 
They're  both  of  'em  crooks.  Here's  the  difference.  If  you 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  67 

are  broke,  you  kin  get  ten  dollars  through  the  front  door  of 
Tammany:  and  you  kin  get  a  boot  through  the  back  door  of 
the  other  Party." 

David  recalled  that  there  had  been  silence  after  this  reply. 
He  was  in  no  mood  for  thinking  it  all  out.  He  knew  only 
that  Jo  Geary  had  straight  sharp  eyes  and  that  he  had 
always  trusted  him,  found  reason,  in  more  immediate  matters, 
to  believe  him.  Cleary  was  full  of  strangeness.  He  wanted 
Ireland  to  be  independent:  he  got  drunk  with  telling  regularity, 
each  Saturday  night.  When  he  was  drunk,  he  was  jolly. 
He  would  sing  pathetic  minor  songs  of  suffering  with  laughter 
in  his  voice  and  wild  flourishing  arms. 

"D'ye  see?"  he'd  shout,  "This  is  how  we  keeps  'em  down. 
'Down,  down,  with  the  pigs,  ha,  ha!'  " 

When  he  was  sober,  Cleary  was  morose  and  a  good  work 
man.  David  knew  enough  to  feel  the  pathos  in  his  drunken 
jollity.  It  was  a  thing,  unlike  all  these  about  him,  he  in 
stinctively  understood.  It  was  a  thing,  among  others,  that 
made  him  mark  deary's  sober  words  and  give  them  credence. 

So  David  stirred  against  the  Sunday  paper.  He  was  glad, 
when  Lois  stood  there  in  the  door  to  take  him  away  from 
the  vice  of  thinking. 

"There's  some  people  downstairs,  David,  just  dying  to  meet 
you.  Will  you  come?" 

While  he  looked  up  at  her,  she  was  still.  She  felt  the 
flattery  of  his  warm  eyes.  She  was  slender  and  sweet,  with 
her  bent  body  leaning  against  the  jamb.  She  seemed  to 
David  a  glowing  creature,  a  product  so  desirable  that  the 
world  which  brought  her  forth  must  be  perfect  also.  And 
Lois  saw  him,  clouding  in  his  chair,  trying  to  rouse  himself  to 
the  business  below:  she  liked  the  brash  vividness  of  his  clumsy 
body,  the  naive  confession  in  his  face  of  all  that  spoke  in  his 
heart.  She  half  realized  that  this  freshness  did  not  grow  in  the 
sheltered  rooms  of  the  City:  she  regretted  it. 


68  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

David  followed  her  downstairs. 

He  felt  as  he  stepped  in  that  they  were  looking  at  him 
and  that  they  must  have  stopped  abrupt  from  talking  of  him. 
It  was  as  if  one  voice  had  spoken  and  were  now  cut  off. 
Yet  David  had  heard  no  word. 

He  was  being  introduced.  He  saw  that  his  business  friend, 
Duer  Tibbetts,  was  in  the  group.  He  gathered  that  these 
were  his  parents  and  his  sister.  They  and  the  Deanes  were 
all  knit  together.  He  was  outside.  He  had  the  sense  of 
an  aperture,  laboriously  open,  slowly  sucking  him  in.  He  felt 
himself  resisting. 

There  were  words;  he  answered  enough  he  presumed.  Mr. 
Tibbetts  told  him  that  his  uncle  was  already  hopeful  of  his 
success;  Mrs.  Tibbetts  invited  him  to  dinner.  The  young  girl 
v;?.s  beside  Lois.  They  were  faintly  apart:  a  mere  quarter- 
note  out  of  harmony.  This  introduced  a  tremor  into  the 
heavy  rhythm  of  the  room.  David  liked  it.  Instinctively,  he 
moved  toward  the  two  girls.  In  the  dissonance  of  their 
atmosphere  he  found  himself:  the  group  receded  into  its  indi 
vidual  components. 

He  observed  in  Mr.  Tibbetts  an  air  of  aloofness,  of  studied 
condescension  that  was  half  nature  and  half  inspired  by  David. 
Duer  imitated  him,  he  saw  now  that  Duer  always  imitated  his 
father:  he  was  a  depleted  pattern  of  Mr.  Tibbetts.  Mrs. 
Tibbetts  talked  most  easily.  "I  am  Cousin  Laura,"  she  an 
nounced  with  a  confidence  that  showed  how  fully  her  habit 
was  command,  "and  this  is  Cousin  John."  She  was  a  very 
thin  lady  with  a  bobbing  adam's-apple.  She  was  clad  in 
glimmering  blue  satin  and  her  feet  were  slippered  not  so 
slenderly  as  to  conceal  their  astounding  inharmonious  width. 
David  saw  the  height  of  her  cheekbones  and  the  scooped  bom- 
ness  between  her  nose  and  her  mouth.  She  was  a  type  familiar 
to  him  in  New  England. 

In  all  the  families  he  had  yet  come  to  know,  the  women 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  69 

were  spokesmen.  The  men  burst  on  occasion  from  brooding 
silence  into  cantankerous  volubility.  David  was  not  surprised 
when  Mr.  Tibbetts  began  a  speech. 

It  was,  different,  however.  It  came  from  between  thin  lips. 
It  left  the  broad  complacent  countenance  unmoved.  It  had 
none  of  the  weight  and  breadth  and  clarity  of  this  man's  wide 
open  collar  and  of  his  wide  white  vest.  It  seemed  very  little 
to  come  forth  from  so  voluminous  a  frock-coat.  Mr.  Tibbetts 
talked;  David  could  not  altogether  keep  his  eyes  from  the 
cylindrical  cuffs  and  the  crinkly  patent-leather  shoes.  These 
seemed  the  proper  focus  of  attention,  as  in  other  cases  the 
speaker's  eyes. 

Mr.  Tibbetts  was  saying  that  it  was  a  great  joy  to  have  at 
new  young  member  of  the  family.  He  said  this  several  times. 
He  seemed  to  be  talking  down  to  David:  to  be  choosing  em 
phatic,  monosyllabic  words:  to  be  repeating  his  welcome  for 
each  bright  button  on  his  waistcoat.  David  knew  that  Mr. 
Tibbetts  could  have  spoken  better.  He  recalled  now  that  this 
was  his  uncle's  lawyer,  was  a  great  lawyer,  had  his  portrait* 
occasionally  in  the  papers. 

"Duer  tells  me  you  are  already  friends.  I  am  glad.  He 
will  help  you  downtown.  You  must  help  each  other.  I'll 
tell  you  how.  Have  a  race.  See  who  can  do  the  best  work. 
Who  can  work  hardest.  That's  not  a  bad  idea,  eh?  You  two 
— having  a  race — spurring  each  other  on  to  new  efforts. 
Racing  each  other  to  the  goal  of  hard  and  successful  work. 
Do  you  understand  what  I  mean?  All  life  is  a  race.  Ever 
thought  of  that?  All  life  is  a  race.  You  two  men  must  help 
each  other  in  the  spirit  of  friendly  Competition.  .  .  ." 

It  was  plain  that  Mr.  Tibbetts  loved  this  conception  of  his. 
He  caressed  it.  He  rubbed  it  up  and  down.  He  could  not 
let  it  go.  David,  standing  there,  counted  the  buttons  on  his 
waistcoat. 


70  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

Mrs.  Deane  spoke:  "Why  don't  you  young  people  run  along 
upstairs?" 

Automatically,  Lois,  Miss  Tibbetts  and  the  two  boys  rose 
from  their  chairs.  It  was  as  if  they  were  being  thrust  away 
by  a  sated  creature.  David  could  feel  the  swift  rushing  of 
the  current  of  attention  from  him.  The  single  eye  was  turned 
away:  the  single  word  knew  him  not.  He  was  nothing. 

He  saw  these  men  and  women,  sure,  satisfied;  he  felt  a 
certain  cruelty  in  their  assurance  and  in  their  satisfaction. 
He  was  closer  to  the  girls.  Muriel  had  not  budged  from  her 
seat.  In  Duer  was  a  certain  mingling  of  movement  and  of 
motive.  Duer  was  changing  his  status.  Muriel  had  changed 
already.  She  had  qualified  and  been  absorbed.  She  was  one 
of  the  possessors,  one  with  this  generation  which  had  achieved. 
Duer  was  on  the  way.  David  saw  something  like  a  royal 
whim  in  the  intensity  of  the  brief  interest  of  these  elders. 
They  had  looked  at  him  as  possible  food,  as  a  possible  new 
adhesion  to  their  body.  They  had  not  remotely  thought  of 
him  as  a  separate  human  being  with  heart  and  mind  and  soul 
of  his  own.  In  a  way  poignant,  however  vague,  David  felt 
this,  felt  further  the  meaning  of  their  swift  disposal  after 
the  appeasement  of  interest.  Here,  at  last,  he  discerned  a 
Group.  He  knew  that  in  its  elemental  consciousness  he 
must  be  either  a  good  thing  for  its  increase,  or  a  bad  thing 
altogether.  .  .  . 

Upstairs  another  sudden  shift  in  mood  and  stress. 

Duer  all  at  once  was  middle-aged  and  weightily  silent.  He 
looked  on  the  two  girls  with  a  forebearing  reticence.  He  had 
left  a  part  of  himself — a  longing  part — downstairs.  A  part  of 
the  group  downstairs — the  complacent  part — he  was  trying 
sturdily  to  carry  on. 

Lois  and  his  sister  were  hard  to  impress.  Their  bright  in 
difference  outshone  his  drab  and  manufactured  ease.  A  cer 
tain  sublime  comfort  lay  beneath  Duer's  manifest  disapproval 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  71 

of  their  gayety.  It  said:  "Time  is  with  me.  Wait  until  you 
are  women,  as  I  am  a  man.  My  way  wins." 

Lois  placed  Miss  Tibbetts  before  him  with  a  ceremonial 
air. 

"Fay  is  my  very  best  friend.  So  you  two  must  be  friends, 
too:  for  my  sake.  .  .  .  Kiss!" 

He  obeyed  joyously.  He  liked  the  spirit  of  this.  He  felt 
its  unregeneracy.  Already,  though  he  knew  it  not,  he  was 
arrayed  against  the  informing  tide  of  this  life  about  him.  And 
when  he  was  near  a  girl  whom  he  liked,  much  of  David's 
inhibitions  melted  away. 

Duer  made  his  advance.  He  needed  an  ally  against  the 
flippancy  of  these  girls,  these  girls  about  whom  he  would 
have  said:  "They  know  nothing  about  life:  they  know  nothing 
about  Business." 

"Well,  how  go  things?"  he  swaggered,  throwing  up  his  head 
with  a  nonchalance  that  was  belied  by  the  keen  worry  of  his 
eyes.  "Satisfied  with  McGill?" 

David  retreated.     "Sure,"  he  avoided  an  answer. 

Duer  knew  that  in  such  gatherings  as  now  downstairs  men 
must  talk  politics  and  business  while  the  mentally  segregated 
ladies  discussed  servants  and  dress.  Duer  had  the  passion 
of  conforming.  Life  to  him  was  an  exclusive  club  to  which; 
he  yearned  to  belong.  Service  was  a  means  toward  being 
voted  in.  He  had  all  the  fervor  of  a  mediaeval  page  grasping 
for  spurs.  But  David  was  miserable  in  this  intruding  sense 
of  fitness.  He  liked  the  anarchy  of  Lois  more.  He  was  curi 
ous  about  this  girl  whom  Lois  loved.  He  had  nothing  to  say 
to  Duer. 

So  the  four  joined  a  circle  from  which  Duer  spiritually  re 
tired.  David  did  not  know  how  to  skate.  Lois  and  Fay  al 
ready  lived  the  delight  of  teaching  him.  The  Rink  would  be 
open  soon.  They  argued  the  kind  of  skates  he  should  buy. 

"And  if  you  fall,"  said  Lois  forbiddingly. 


72  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

"Oh,  he  will  fall.     Beginners  always  do." 

"Well,  never  you  mind.  We'll  pick  you  up.  Won't  we, 
Fay?  We'll  take  care  of  you." 

She  seemed  almost  tender.     Then  her  hard  giggle. 

"No  one  shall  laugh  at  you  either,"  Fay  declared. 

"No  one*  except  us,"  said  Lois. 

The  thought  came  to  David  that  he  would  have  preferred 
her  saying:  "No  one  except  me."  But  it  was  plain  these 
two  hunted  together.  David  found  it  hard  to  understand 
their  likeness. 

"Children!  Children!  Come  now.  We're  going."  The 
voice  of  Mrs.  Tibbetts  strode  through  the  house.  Duer  was 
the  quickest  to  respond. 

David  and  Lois  were  alone. 

The  brief  packed  hour  had  stirred  the  early  world  of  David, 
had  made  it  glow  again.  Their  spirits  had  been  high  to 
gether.  Now,  somehow,  they  sat  in  gloom.  They  realized 
that  in  their  lightness  there  had  been  combat.  Looking  at 
each  other,  they  felt  the  burden  of  those  below  advancing 
heavily  upon  them. 

"Why  do  you  love  Fay  so  much?" 

"Because  she's  a  dear."  Lois  was  not  on  the  defensive  be 
cause  of  Fay.  She  had  more  intelligence  than  her  answer. 
She  deemed  the  question  worthy  of  no  better.  She  sought 
the  solace  of  a  different  subject. 

David  kept  silent,  and  looked  at  Lois  and  thought  of  Fay. 

He  saw  Fay  quite  clearly.  Fay  was  dark,  regular  of  feature, 
beautiful  even.  Her  face  was  hard.  It  had  none  of  the  free 
loveliness  of  sixteen  years.  It  roused  in  David  passion  more 
nearly  than  affection,  the  need  to  dominate  rather  than  to 
help.  David  saw  her  straight  mouth,  her  veiled  eyes,  the 
squareness  of  her  forehead:  he  tried  to  remember  that  she 
had  laughed  and  joked  with  Lois,  was  delightful  snubbing 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  73 

her  solemn  brother.  Her  lively  brightness  seemed  strange  to 
her  immobile  face. 

"Besides,  Lois  is  her  chum,  and  look  at  Lois!"  he  argued 
with  himself  and  he  looked.  He  knew  that  her  tenderness 
was  like  an  early  yellow  violet.  He  set  aside  his  first  for 
bidding  instinct  about  Fay.  He  forgot  it,  altogether.  .  .  . 

In  contemplation  of  each  other,  these  two  were  like  two 
worlds,  each  with  its  atmosphere  and  its  teeming  life  and 
its  fires,  each  with  its  intense  exclusive  consciousness,  thrust 
suddenly  close  out  of  the  silences  of  Space.  They  felt  the 
indefeasible  Past  that  summed  their  difference:  its  involute 
progression  of  separate  thought  and  deed  reaching  from  the 
mist  of  their  beginnings.  They  were  separate:  Nothing  was 
between  them.  Yet  they  were  being  drawn  together. 

When  Lois  came  down  to  breakfast,  David  was  gone.  There 
was  just  time  to  kiss  her  father  as  he  trudged  back  into 
the  dining  room,  hatted  and  overcoated,  smoking  hard  at 
the  day's  first  cigar.  Mr.  Deane's  true  genius  for  system  was 
at  work  even  at  half  past  eight.  When  he  reached  his  train 
at  Fiftieth  Street,  his  cigar  was  done.  It  was  a  smaller  cigar 
than  he  smoked  later  in  the  day. 

"Well,  good-by."  He  stood  in  the  doorway.  Lois  jumped 
from  her  chair  and  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  kissed 
him.  She  loved  her  father.  It  was  somewhat  a  maternal 
love.  She  knew  that  he  was  rather  the  defensive  and  service 
able  member  of  the  household. 

One  day,  she  visited  her  father  at  his  offices  downtown. 
She  walked  a  bit  fastidiously  through  the  murky  sales-depart 
ment  on  the  ground  floor  where  the  bright  yellow  oak  and 
the  beveled  glass  and  the  shadows  under  long  tables  depressed 
her.  She  saw  men  moving  about  in  shirt-sleeves:  grimy  boys 
that  ambled  in  and  out  of  doors  whose  jaws  seemed  busier 
with  gum  than  their  slack  minds  with  business.  They  led  her 
to  a  spiral  iron  stair  through  whose  slatted  steps  she  could 


74  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

see  the  bowed  heads  below  of  men  at  desks  and  women  bent 
over  papers.  It  had  appeared  to  her  first  that  this  was  a 
hostile  world,  she  was  frightened  to  have  come  upon  it. 

On  the  narrow  steps,  she  gave  way  to  a  girl — not  much 
older  than  herself  in  years — but  very  old  as  if  she  lived  in  a 
harder  world  than  Lois,  a  world  that  wore  one  more  away, 
that  sapped  the  flower  of  cheeks  and  the  laughter  of  eyes 
and  parched  the  bloom  of  a  girl's  hair.  She  noticed  all  this, 
stepping  aside  so  that  the  girl  might  pass.  She  moved,  apolo 
getic,  fearful,  strangely  ashamed.  She  saw  the  hard  paper 
cylinders  serving  this  girl  as  sleeves.  In  the  lifeless  golden 
hair  she  saw  that  a  pencil  was  stuck.  She  felt  guilt.  But 
Lois  had  no  power  to  plumb  her  impulse:  it  went.  She  was 
in  her  father's  private  office  and  a  new  pride  swiftly  scurried 
away  the  mist  of  that  strange  encounter. 

Here — she  felt  it  at  once — here  her  father  was  master!  A 
new  light  by  which  to  see  him. 

At  home  her  mother  ruled  him.  Muriel  flouted  him  when 
he  obtruded  upon  the  most  idle  of  her  ways.  He  seemed  glad, 
as  of  a  privilege,  to  hold  Lois  on  his  knees;  after  Sunday 
breakfast,  and  spoil  her  with  promises  of  trinkets,  bribing  for 
kisses  and  smiles.  Also,  at  home  he  was  weary,  a  depleted 
man.  He  had  little  ways  of  confessing  his  weakness  and  al 
though  Lois  was  not  so  analytic  as  to  gauge  them  consciously, 
their  accumulation  brought  its  impress  to  her  mind.  He  lost 
his  temper.  He  bore  treading  on,  was  silent,  then  suddenly  he 
lost  his  temper.  He  cried  aloud  about  his  power,  that  his 
will  was  final:  he  was  the  head  of  the  household:  not  Muriel, 
not  Muriel — he.  Lois  felt  the  whisper  against  these  over- 
protestations. 

Here  was  a  party  to  which  a  not  too  well  established  youth 
had  invited  Muriel.  The  youth  was  calling  for  her  in  a  car 
riage  himself  had  hired. 

"You  aren't  going  in  that  carriage,"  said  Mr.  Deane. 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  75 

Muriel  was  struck  silent.  She  retreated  before  the  sudden 
quiet  of  his  authority.  Slowly  gathering  herself,  she  matched 
him. 

"And  why  not,  please?"  Her  voice  was  compressed  in  her 
throat. 

"Why  not?"  her  father  burst  forth.  "Because  I  don't  want 
you  to.  I  don't  allow  any  young  whippersnapper  who  wants, 
to  take  my  daughter  in  a  hired  carriage.  We  have  a  carriage 
of  our  own,  haven't  we?  Isn't  it  good  enough?  Send  your 
young  man  a  message  to  countermand  his  rig  and  you  may  go." 

Muriel  stood  there,  swaying  a  bit,  lowering  on  him. 

"I'll  do  no  such  thing.  Make  him  think  I'm  a  child  who 
can't  go  out  in  any  carriage  but  my  Papa's?  The  whole  thing 
is  too  silly " 

"Very  well.     Then  stay  at  home." 

Muriel  broke  into  tears. 

"I  won't,"  she  cried.  "I'll  go.  I  never  heard  of  such  a 
thing.  It's  stupid.  What  have  you  got  all  of  a  sudden 
against  Alfred?  Why  should  you  ask  me  to  insult  him  so? 
If  he  prefers  to  order  his  own  cab  .  .  ." 

She  stood  there  and  wept  and  moved  not  at  all,  save  for 
the  stamping  of  her  feet.  Her  father  paced  the  room,  far 
less  contained. 

"I  have  said  what  I  meant."  Stopping  short,  he  joined  the 
issue.  "And  you  will  obey.  So  long  as  you  are  in  my  house, 
I  am  to  be  obeyed,  do  you  hear?  You  ain't  married  yet." 

He  left  the  room.  Muriel  went  to  the  dance  in  her  father's 
carriage.  But  Lois  knew  how  clearly,  in  the  light  of  the  en 
suing  days,  the  victory  was  with  her  sister.-  Muriel  kept 
aloof,  frigid.  She  waged  a  perpetual  guerilla  on  her  father. 
Soon  he  began  to  bribe  and  to  cajole  for  a  return  to  favor. 
He  bought  her  an  armlet  she  had  several  months  ago  ex 
pressed  the  wish  for.  He  had  said  it  was  too  expensive. 
"Out  of  the  question."  He  took  her  to  theater  with  a  strained 


76  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

gusto  of  good  will  and  to  supper  after.  He  spoke  to  her 
with  a  nervous  smile  that  exclaimed  his  suppliance.  And 
Muriel  accepted  all,  gave  nothing.  She  wore  his  armlet  and 
in  no  way  acknowledged  the  life  and  feeling  of  the  harried 
man  who  waited  for  thanks  as  for  a  reprieve.  On  his  return 
each  evening  to  his  house,  she  managed  some  little  way  to 
hold  him  frozen  in  discomfort.  On  the  occasion  of  another 
dance,  he  said: 

"Muriel,  my  dear — I  just  wanted  to  know — are  you  using 
the  carriage  to-night,  or  is  your  escort  taking  care  of  that?  I 
just  wanted  to  know,  you  see — because  if  so,  I  might  use 
Henry  myself.  There's  a  conference  I " 

"I  have  made  no  other  arrangements." 

"Oh,  well,  that  is  all  right,  my  dear.  I  can  get  a  cab. 
I — I  just  wanted  to  know,  you  see.  .  .  ." 

Having  completely  and  ignominiously  surrendered,  he 
beamed  at  his  daughter.  Muriel  smiled  back. 

Here:  Lois  was  ensconced  in  a  deep  armchair  of  bronzed 
leather.  She  was  examining  her  little  feet  that  lay  in  a  rich 
Turkish  rug.  A  knock  at  the  door. 

"Come  in,"  said  her  father  without  looking  up. 

A  young  man,  the  symbol  of  subservience,  stepped  in. 

He  placed  a  group  of  papers  before  Mr.  Deane,  who  did 
not  look  at  him.  He  stepped  back,  threw  up  his  head  and 
waited. 

Mr.  Deane  raced  through  the  papers.  He  marked  annota 
tions.  He  grunted. 

"You'll  have  to  see  Mr.  McGill  about  this":  the  young  man 
agilely  stepped  forward  to  ascertain  which  paper  it  was,  and 
agilely  subsided.  "All  right.  Let  Mr.  Marton  attend  to  the 
tax." 

He  returned  the  papers  to  the  young  man,  for  the  first  time 
saw  him. 

"Here,"  he  smiled.    "Why  don't  you  two  greet  each  other?" 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  77 

Duer  Tibbetts  moved  jerkily  forward  and  took  his  cousin's 
hand.  But  the  bondage  of  the  room's  authority  was  strong 
on  him.  He  seemed  weighed  down  by  this  sense  of  special 
dispensation.  Social  talk  was  impossible  in  the  august  pres 
ence.  He  was  soon  gone. 

Another  five  minutes  of  chat,  another  knock.  This  time 
a  girl  appeared  with  papers.  The  same  subdued  alertness, 
the  same  gingerly  respect.  Mr.  Deane  pressed  a  button.  A 
boy  bobbed  in. 

"Take  Miss  Deane  to  her  carriage."  The  boy  fell  back 
as  if  to  flatten  himself  into  the  wall,  while  she  passed  him. 
Her  father  got  up. 

"Well,  my  dear.  I  am  afraid  I  am  too  busy  now";  in  this 
splendid  easy  manner  he  dismissed  her.  .  .  . 

This  transfiguration  of  her  father  into  a  man  of  power  was 
a  sharp  new  knowledge.  But  in  the  more  persuasive  color  of 
her  home,  its  lines  grew  faint.  It  soon  withdrew  into  the 
limbo  of  things  remote,  scarce  real,  hence  scarce  remembered. 
It  had  little  application  to  her  world  uptown.  In  consequence, 
it  had  no  effect. 

Lois  left  school  in  time  for  lunch.  It  was  to  be  her  last 
year  at  school.  The  lunches  would  go  on. 

Seated  at  the  wide  round  table  with  Muriel  and  her  mother, 
she  instinctively  inquired  into  her  own  future  freedom:  and 
in  this  mood  studied  them.  She  studied  their  dress;  she  studied 
their  activities.  She  absorbed  their  judgments  and  their 
pleasures. 

She  was  sixteen.  A  spirit  of  gayety  and  candor  danced  in 
her  heart.  But  she  had  no  knowledge  to  build  a  mansion  for 
it:  to  train  and  cherish  it:  to  give  it  weapons  wherewith  to 
confront  the  world.  It  was  dancing,  this  unblemished  spirit, 
dancing  itself  to  death.  For  it  was  daughter  of  the  sun,  and 
it  breathed  no  fresh  air:  it  had  been  born  careless  and  frail 


78  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

and  all  about  it  walls  of  convention:  it  was  starved  and  forced 
to  feed  upon  itself. 

"I  promised  to  go  and  have  tea  with  poor  Mrs.  Dent." 

"Since  when,"  asked  Muriel,  "is  Mrs.  Dent  'poor'?" 

"Don't  you  remember  she  has  just  lost  her  husband?" 

"Oh,  yes."    Muriel  remembers. 

Her  mother  goes  on.  "Do  you  think,  dear,  you  can  drop 
me  there  on  your  way  to  the  Selby's?" 

"I  don't  really  see  how  I'll  have  time,  Mamma.  I  must  take 
a  rest  after  lunch.  I  promised  to  call  for  Aline  King." 

"Can't  Aline  get  there  without  you?" 

"I  promised  her,  Mamma." 

Mrs.  Deane  will  take  the  street-car.  She  does  not  like  to 
squander  money  on  cabs. 

"You  haven't  forgotten  that  you  are  going  shopping  with 
me,  to-morrow  morning.  You  promised  me." 

"I  saw  just  the  loveliest  hat,  just  to-day,  Mamma,  at  Ber- 
trande's.  I  am  having  it  sent  home  to  you.  I'm  sure  it  will 
suit  you.  Then,  we  needn't  go  shopping.  I  must  write  to 
Clarice  sometime.  I  thought  I'd  sleep  late  to-morrow  and 
write  before  lunch.  She  is  getting  a  divorce,  you  know." 

Lois  knew  already  the  inwardness  of  marriage.  There  was 
much  talk  of  this  at  the  luncheon  table.  She  had  the  right 
contempt  for  the  girls  who  married  unmoneyed  men  for  love: 
for  the  men  who  risked  their  future — their  finances — in  alliance 
with  unmoneyed  girls:  and  for  the  novels  she  read  where  love 
was  extolled  and  the  sentimental  match  defended.  These 
books  were — well — for  reading.  Novels  and  stories  were  in 
dulgences  like  red  and  emerald  peppermints  after  dessert. 
They  lied. 

And  Lois  knew  already  the  inwardness  of  friendship.  Muriel 
and  her  mother  had  friends.  They  kissed  them  and  flattered 
them  and  entertained  them.  At  the  luncheon  table  they  dis 
cussed  them.  No  one  but  was  a  tissue  of  deceptions,  of  selfish- 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  79 

ness,  of  deceit.  Their  morals  were  largely  obstacles  they  were 
forever  dodging.  They  flirted — with  fops  or  fools.  They 
angled — for  goldfish.  They  were  miserable  at  home.  One  was 
none  too  anxious  to  have  children.  One  was  none  too  faithful 
to  her  husband.  All  of  them  were  none  too  good  at  all. 

Immediately  after  lunch,  Florence  was  to  call  for  Muriel 
and  take  her  for  a  walk.  Florence  was  violently  trying  to 
win  the  King  boy  whose  father  had  nearly  a  million.  But 
it  was  hopeless  because  Mabel — mutual  .friend — had  told 
Muriel  all  about  it  and  she  was  secretly  engaged  to  Clifford 
King.  Oh,  Aline  wouldn't  know!  Clifford  was  bored  by 
Aline.  Muriel  and  Mabel  had  had  a  good  laugh  over  Florence 
— poor  child — such  antics. 

"She  really  loves  him,  you  know."  Muriel  smiles  compla 
cently.  This  is  an  interesting  if  somewhat  superfluous  detail 
in  her  wish  to  wed  him.  Mrs.  Deane  nods,  mildly  concerned. 

Later:  "Hello,  Florence  dearest.  I  was  so  afraid  you'd  be 
late.  .  .  ." 

Indeed,  Lois  knew  already  the  inwardness  of  life.  Life  was, 
in  the  patriarchal  term,  a  "business  proposition."  Out  of  the 
arcana  of  the  past  her  intellect  could  summon  the  picture  of 
a  free  land  peopled  by  striving  men  and  women.  This  land 
was  America.  Its  freedom  meant  the  opportunity  of  all  "to 
get  along":  to  become  rich.  Men  achieved  this  in  business, 
women  in  marriage.  The  sublime  distinction  of  America  was 
that  no  castes  interfered  with  business,  and  no  classes  with 
marriage.  .  .  .  Sharply  there  emerged  from  this  hallowed 
field  one  man  and  one  woman.  The  man  was  her  father.  He 
had  grown  rich  by  being  quick  and  clever.  The  woman  was 
her  mother.  She  had  grown  rich  by  being  sensible,  by  seizing 
her  chance.  Romance  in  their  lives  was  a  hidden  function,  if 
it  existed  at  all.  It  was  bound  up  with  the  mysteries  of  birth 
and  sex.  These  things  took  care  of  themselves. 

The  important  thing  for  Lois,  since  she  was  a  woman,  lay 


8o  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

in  the  need  of  being  sensible.  Lois  knew  what  this  meant.  She 
knew  as  well  the  proportional  insignificance  of  her  own  girlish 
impulses.  Lois  loved  to  play,  loved  to  be  loyal  to  a  friend, 
would  have  loved  to  love  a  man.  But  these  were  part  of  her 
childhood,  and  childhood  was  a  special  state.  Its  needs  were 
indulgences  one  must  outgrow.  Childhood  was  of  the  same 
dim  category  as  art  and  stories.  It  wasn't  true.  It  was 
"make-believe."  It  lied.  Muriel  had  already  cast  it  aside 
like  her  short  dresses.  Lois  was  aware  she  was  carrying  it  a 
bit  too  far  and  too  long.  She  was  sixteen  and  in  ankle  skirts 
and  her  braids  were  already  gathered  on  her  head.  She  deemed 
herself  brave  and  a  trifle  foolish  to  be  so  frolicsome  at  sixteen. 
She  was  unswervingly  confident  of  knowing  how  to  change 
at  the  needed  moment.  Meanwhile,  she  felt  herself  slightly 
inferior  in  the  things  that  held  her  and  in  the  moods  she  loved. 
The  rule  of  life  was  to  harden  the  present  into  a  mold  for  the 
future.  Yet  Lois  could  not  resist  pouring  herself  still  into 
immediate  and  short-lived  moments:  giving  herself  to  emo 
tions  that  must  have  no  future.  The  gay  spirit  still  danced 
fast.  Inexorably,  from  without,  the  things  she  learned  bore 
inward,  seeped  downward,  stifled  the  things  she  had  merely 
always  felt.  Her  acquired  consciousness  was  a  slow  acid 
mist  that  would  eat  away  the  stir  and  laughter  of  her  birth. 
The  gay  spirit  danced  fast,  though  it  was  dancing  to  death. 

All  this  was  Lois.  All  this  was  drawing,  with  her  and  in 
her,  near  to  David.  With  David  the  stalwart  muteness  of  the 
years  that  inclosed  him  with  his  mother:  the  sting  and  the 
song  of  his  father:  the  drowsy  stir  of  the  Town  not  yet  awak 
ened,  not  yet  awakened  to  its  death  in  the  crash  of  the  in 
dustrial  Age. 

Two  little  teeming  worlds,  spying  each  other,  craving  each 
other  across  the  Nothing.  .  .  . 

David  and  Thomas  Rennard  had  agreed  on  an  evening  by 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  81 

letter.  They  were  going  to  dine  together,  and  then  to  theater. 
Tom  waited  in  the  lights  of  a  Broadway  chop-house. 

He  would  not  know  the  man  he  met:  this  he  knew.  He 
stood  quite  still  and  gauged  the  crowds.  The  heavy  strokes  of 
their  passing  fell  against  his  measured  life.  They  separated 
him  as  he  stood  there  from  the  thoughts  and  fruits  of  his 
growing.  Tom  stood  graceful  and  free  as  few  men  do.  His 
weight  was  equal  on  both  feet:  his  arms  were  unpropped:  his 
back  curved  subtly  in  rhythm  with  his  head.  Only  in  the 
faint  peer  of  his  eyes  was  there  defect.  Tom  was  nearsighted. 
He  did  not  admit  this.  He  wore  no  glasses,  despite  the  advice 
of  doctors.  His  best  friends  had  no  inkling  that  when  he 
recognized  them,  distant,  on  the  street,  it  was  not  by  sight  of 
their  features  but  by  knowledge  of  the  accents  of  their  walk. 

The  crowds  flayed  him  with  dull  black  strokes  and  Tom 
was  separate  from  his  first  months  in  the  City.  He  twined 
this  with  thoughts  of  David.  It  was  different  of  course.  David 
must  have  found  a  ready  welcome  in  the  house  of  his  uncle. 
Tom  knew  of  Anthony  Deane:  his  name  was  that  of  a  big- 
hearted,  well-liked  merchant.  Tom  had  come  with  no  recep 
tion,  no  one  to  remake  and  to  keep  him.  He  thought  of  a 
stone  fallen  in  a  wind-shattered  sea,  how  it  sank  with  no 
slightest  added  tremor  of  wave  and  no  sign  from  the  swinging 
heavens.  He  knew  what  the  City  had  done  upon  him.  The 
terracing  steel  had  rivetted  his  eyes  and  writhed  him.  The 
clamor  of  this  world  had  soon  enticed  him  from  the  call  of  his 
old  thoughts.  Old  dreams  were  outrun  by  the  faery  of  the 
City. 

He  stood  naked  there,  and  emptied  among  millions.  Cor 
nelia  was  distant  with  her  cold  hand  in  his.  But  he  was  more 
alive  than  he  had  been.  He  knew  this,  because  his  nudity  was 
not  stark.  It  was  encased  in  a  great  trembling.  It  was  cold 
with  a  great  hunger  for  warmth.  A  fire  of  will  stirred  in  him: 
darted  from  him  out  and  became  vision  among  the  millions. 


82  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

He  had  seen.  He  saw  that  these  millions  also  were  naked 
and  forlorn  from  themselves.  No  one  was  at  home  in  the 
City:  no  one  was  himself  in  the  City!  Tom  had  found  him 
self  smiling,  known  himself  strong.  He  was  naked  no  longer. 
He  was  clothed  in  the  knowledge  of  the  nakedness  of  others. 
...  At  once  he  had  looked  at  his  hands  and  found  money. 
He  prospered.  But  Tom  knew  that  this  light  from  within  him 
self  which  played  about  among  the  darkness  of  men  and 
brought  him  the  strength  of  knowledge  could  not  go  forth 
from  him  and  stay  in  him  as  well.  When  it  was  away,  out 
side,  doing  his  work  Success,  he  was  unlit  himself. 

Would  he  find  David  still  shivering  in  his  new  nakedness? 
Tom  remembered  the  distinction  between  them. 

"No,"  he  said  aloud:  "he'll  be  thinking  there's  darkness 
and  confusion  all  about,  in  the  blinding  blare  of  his  own  light. 
And  blaming  it  all  on  himself." 

He  winced,  suddenly  finding  it  cold.  The  dark  pupils  of 
his  eyes  distended,  the  mouth  drew  downward  over  the  lower 
lip,  the  skin  was  taut  on  his  cheek-bones.  Then  a  recovering 
spark  in  his  eyes  illumed  their  warm  particles  of  bistre,  the 
defiant  smile  of  his  mouth  pointed  upward. 

The  lamps  of  the  restaurant  fagade  fell  over  Tom  and  bathed 
him.  He  had  the  sudden  pain  of  feeling  himself  a  black  spot 
in  warm  blaze.  He  moved  aside  to  shadow.  He  stepped  out, 
and  grasped  David's  hand. 

A  coachman  stood  at  the  corner  beside  his  horse.  Idly  he 
flapped  his  arms — a  habit  caught  from  the  cold  winters — 
against  the  musty  broadcloth  of  his  coat.  He  saw  the  two 
young  men  in  the  light.  Their  profiles  were  sharp.  An  eager 
alert  young  man  and  a  drowsy  one,  passive  before  him.  A 
clear  laugh  and  a  muffled  laugh  that  followed  always.  The 
coachman  turned  to  his  horse:  "Well,  young  feller,  have  some 
oats?"  He  prodded  his  soft  nose.  The  other  two  were  gone. 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  83 

Three  houses  stood  far  separate  in  the  City.  The  house  of 
the  Deanes  where  the  old  world  of  David  dissolved  into  a 
frantic  chaos:  the  house  of  the  Company  in  whose  gathered 
fires  his  new  world  formed  from  the  running  welter:  the  house 
on  whose  top  floor  lived  Thomas  Rennard.  These  houses 
threw  a  vivid  stirring  like  the  glow  of  lamps.  The  spheres  of 
their  activity  converged.  As  they  burned  and  moved,  a  myriad 
other  burnings  rose  and  met  them,  intermingled  and  trans 
fused  them.  A  single  light,  drenching  the  City.  It  fell  like  an 
eye  upon  these  two  talking:  it  fell  with  the  same  singleness 
upon  each  spot  where  men  and  women  were,  where  men  and 
women  loved.  From  each  spot  came  a  glow,  from  the  myriad 
glows  rose  back  again  the  transfusing  fire,  deeper  than  con 
sciousness,  more  real  than  the  separate  lives  which  fueled  it, 
as  the  glow  of  coal  is  deeper  and  more  real  than  the  black 
coal  itself.  But  through  the  brightness  was  a  vibrancy:  and 
where  David  and  Tom  sat,  had  they  been  wise  enough  to 
follow  its  receding  lines,  their  vision  must  have  reached  back 
to  the  three  houses.  From  other  spots  the  grain  of  the  light 
traced  back  to  other  sources.  From  these  sources  forth  again 
to  farther  ones.  ...  To  a  white  cottage  in  the  Eastern  village, 
to  the  leaning  plains  of  Ohio.  Thence  again  away  to  beneath 
the  hearts  of  two  dead  women  stirring  there,  quiet — still — once 
more  outward — perhaps  to  find  each  other  behind  the  sun. 
Close,  there:  and  here  at  the  chop-house  table  seeking  to  be 
close. 

David  and  Tom,  together,  were  net  on  Broadway  but  at 
Cornelia's  studio.  The  studio  had  swung  to  place  under  their 
feet;  Broadway  lurched  on,  the  footing  of  others. 

Cornelia  had  not  mentioned  again  her  wish  to  meet  Tom's 
new  friend.  It  was  not  necessary.  The  relation  between  them 
was  too  intimate  for  that.  Tom  knew  when  she  was  thinking 
of  this:  Cornelia  knew  when  Tom  had  understood  her. 


84  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

"Well,  how  was  the  dinner,  brother?" 

"Are  you  busy  next  Sunday  afternoon?" 

"No." 

"I  told  Markand  you  were  anxious  to  meet  him.  He  is  in 
a  state  of  perturbation  I  hope  won't  interfere  with  his  royal 
job  of  clerking." 

"Oh,  I  am  glad.    But-how  was  the  dinner?" 

"You  are  the  first  artist  he  will  have  met.  I  have  told  him 
about  us.  Cornelia,  you  must  wear  something  brighter  than 
that  Russian  thing.  Will  you?  The  sandals  will  do.  Stock 
ings  under  them,  however.  A  little  more  air  in  the  meshes' 
of  your  hair.  Yes?  Why  not  that  green  silk  blouse  with  the 
orange  smocking.  I  want  him  to  see  you're  an  artist  in  some 
outward  visible  sign." 

"And  the  work ?"  Cornelia  looked  at  her  clays. 

"I  am  afraid  he  is  not  quite  up  to  these." 

"Oh,  nonsense,  Tom!"  His  sister  turned  on  her  couch, 
her  favorite  seat.  She  tucked  a  foot  beneath  her  and  laughed. 
"To  hear  you  talk,  one  would  think  the  boy  was  dull — or  that 
my  art  was  inscrutably  profound." 

"He's  not  dull.    I  was  amazed  last  night.  .  .  ." 

"At  last,  the  dinner!" 

"I  was  amazed  at  the  bright  muddle  he's  in.  I  tell  you,  he's 
inquiring  and  inquiring.  It's  glorious!  He  told  me  the  Span 
ish-Cuban  question  was  not  a  mere  matter  of  relief  for  the 
reconcentrados!  'There's  something  else  beside  Principle,'  he 
announced." 

"Whereupon,  I  am  sure,  you  added:  'The  same's  true  of 
the  Monroe  Doctrine.' ': 

"If  I  had,  it  would  have  shocked  him.  I  did  not.  His 
new  searching  eye  has  not  yet  reached  that  sacrosanct  past. 
I  was  in  no  mood  to  startle  him,  Cornelia.  I  felt  different.  I 
like  David  Markand.  I  respect  him.  What  if  he  has  the 
usual  illusions?  In  his  soul,  they  are  no  longer  the  smug 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  85 

knock-kneed  lies  I  hate.  They  become  true:  at  least,  beautiful. 
My  facts  seem  shoddy  and  ugly — and  lying,  in  the  warm  glow 
of  his  faith." 

They  were  silent  both.  Tom  did  not  often  speak  so  ten 
derly. 

"Wait  and  see,"  he  concluded. 

"I  see  already,"  said  his  sister. 

So  David  came. 

He  was  to  leave  at  once  after  the  Sunday  dinner:  push  his 
way  through  the  depleted  Sabbath  City:  he  was  to  ring  the 
bell  on  the  brass-plate  marked  Rennard,  come  up  three  dusty 
stairs  and  find  them  waiting  through  the  door  that  made  two 
worlds  of  the  black  hall  and  the  bright  room. 

"I  am  so  glad  to  see  you!"  Cornelia  had  him  at  once  in 
hand.  He  looked  very  tall  beside  her  sharp  slightness.  She 
took  his  hat  and  his  coat. 

"Do  sit  down."  David  was  anxious  to  look  everywhere 
about  him,  to  touch  all  these  mysteries  with  the  warmth  of 
his  eyes  so  that  they  might  be  cold  and  strange  no  longer.  He 
did  not  quite  dare.  He  kept  looking  near  Cornelia:  then, 
with  still  greater  ease,  toward  Tom.  In  this  his  sensitivity  was 
clear.  A  glance  was  an  intimate  gesture,  a  visit,  to  David.  He 
could  not  comfortably  look  at  what  he  did  not  already  com 
fortably  know. 

"Tom  has  told  me  not  half  enough  about  you.  Just  enough," 
she  smiled,  "to  make  me  know  it  was  not  half  enough." 

Tom  apprehensively  tested  his  new  friend.  His  gladness  at 
seeing  David  understand  Cornelia  released  his  worry  into 
laughter. 

"Oh,"  said  David,  "it  is  just  the  same  in  my  case  with  what 
Mr.  Rennard  has  said  about  you."  He  looked  at  the  little 
cast  between  the  windows  and  blushed:  he  folded  his  hands 
and  looked  at  them. 

Tom  remained  silent.    There  was  no  need  of  talking:  and 


86  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

although  he  talked  much  it  was  deeply  true  that  Tom  talked 
only  when  he  had  need  of  talking.  He  was  comfortable  now. 
He  lit  a  cigarette,  and  lay  prone,  propped  by  his  arms,  on  the 
window-seat;  he  let  the  conversation  of  the  two  go  over  him 
and  smoked. 

"You  know,"  Cornelia  said,  "we  are  not  New  Yorkers 
either." 

David  met  her  eyes.  "Your  brother  told  me  about  how  you 
ran  away." 

Cornelia  was  silent.  What  could  she  say  to  swell  the 
room's  slow  freedom? 

"My  case" — David  went  on — "I  am  so  different.  I  always 
lived  with  my  mother  and  then  she  died.  And  then  my  uncle 
took  me — took  me  really  in  charge.  That  is  why  I  came.  I 
have  never  done  anything  because  I  wanted  to,  really — that  I 
can  remember.  Except  perhaps  work  in  the  bicycle  shop. 
Mother  wanted  me  to  stay  longer  at  school.  But — "  he 
looked  at  his  hands  again  and  stopped,  then  met  Cornelia 
squarely  with  a  smile,  "the  truth  is  mother  said  to  me:  'Do 
as  you  please,  son.'  And — and  I  was  bored  by  school.  My 
best  friend,  Jay  Leamy — he  worked  at  Mr.  Devitt's  also." 

"You  never  told  me  that,"  said  Tom. 

"He  didn't  stay  my  best  friend.  I  guess  that's  why.  I 
guess  I  was  a  better  friend  than  he." 

"What  makes  you  say  that?"  asked  Cornelia. 

"Well — it  was  natural.  He  was  ten  years  older  than  I.  He 
got  married.  He  got  a  better  job  at  the  Arms  factory  just 
outside  Town.  We  didn't  see  each  other  so  much  after  that. 
He  sort  of  lost  interest." 

Cornelia  laughed.  "I  think  that's  a  little  hard!"  She  did 
not  want  this  word.  She  was  sure  "hard"  was  an  ultimate 
wrong  word  for  David  Markand.  She  was  vague  in  her  mis 
giving.  "Probably,  his  wife  and — he  had  children?  Well, 
they  must  have  left  him  far  less  time." 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  87 

"It  is  not  a  question  of  time,  is  friendship?"  David  asked. 

"Well,  left  him  far  less "  Why  did  Cornelia  find  this 

difficult?  "Less  emotion  perhaps.  I  can  understand  that. 
With  a  wife  and  children. " 

"It  would  not  have  made  any  difference  with  me,"  said 
David  simply. 

Torn  was  leaning  over.  "Perhaps  you  don't  know  what  it 
means  to  have  a  wife  and  children." 

"I  know  what  it  ought  to  mean  to  have  a  friend." 

"Are  you  sure?"  said  Tom. 

"After  we  had  shared  so  many  thoughts,  don't  you  see?" 

"You  must  be  capable  of  deep  friendship,"  Cornelia  thought 
aloud. 

Tom  was  somehow  crossed  by  her  remark.  He  lay  back 
once  more,  brooding.  The  talk  was  easy  now  between  the 
other  two.  So  easy  that  even  silence  did  not  disquiet  them. 
Tom  seemed  far  away. 

Out  of  a  silence,  David  asked:  "Is  that  sort  of  friendship 
rare?" 

Cornelia,  not  knowing,  did  not  answer. 

"If  it  is  rare,"  said  Tom,  "there  must  be  something  wrong 
with  it." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"The  good  things  in  the  world  are  common.  Sunlight: 
moonlight." 

"Mother  and  I  were  that  sort  of  friends,"  said  David. 

"I  hope  Tom  and  I  are  also,"  laughed  Cornelia. 

David  looked  at  her  close.  She  was  a  woman  who  made 
beautiful  things.  That  was  her  life.  It  seemed  to  David 
she  was  not  so  very  different  from  many  women  he  had  known 
who  were  nothing  but  mothers.  She  was  not  pretty.  It  never 
occurred  to  David  that  she  could  be  less  than  beautiful.  So 
he  accepted  her. 

A  vague  questioning  flew  through  his  mind  like  a  scarf  of 


88  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

cloud:  Were  things  in  the  world  that  had  different  names  so 
different  after  all?  Artists  and  mothers,  friends  and  mothers, 
sunlight  and  mothers.  .  .  .  The  questioning  faded. 

It  was  good  in  this  room. 

Cornelia  felt  the  trace  of  his  mood  on  her  flesh,  found  a 
warm  pleasure  in  talk  with  this  earnest  boy  whose  mind  could 
touch  truth  v/ithout  the  stiff  proddings  of  the  clever.  It  seemed 
to  Cornelia  that  David  was  steadfastly  strong  like  a  tree. 

Tom  jumped  out  of  his  smoky  silence  and  brewed  coffee. 
They  threw  cushions  on  the  floor.  They  laughed  a  bit  at 
David's  awkwardness  at  squatting.  These  shadows  in  the 
room  were  good.  Tom  came  forward  now.  The  ease  of  his 
revery  and  of  his  listening  had  distilled  some  new  disquiet. 
He  needed  to  get  at  David. 

He  would  have  said:  "How  little  this  boy  knows  himself! 
What  passion  lies  behind  this  dream  of  friendship!  What 
will  the  world  do  when  he  goes  asking  impossible  treasures?" 
The  thought  gave  him  worry.  He  would  have  said:  "The  City 
will  not  make  him.  Thanks  for  that.  But  break  him,  break 
him,  perhaps."  The  fear  made  him  urgent:  David  must  be 
flexible  with  his  terrible  strength.  His  spoken  words  were: 
"I  am  reminded  of  a  story " 

"There  was  a  man."  Tom  did  not  know  what  he  was  going 
to  say.  His  head  swam.  He  was  suddenly  tired  and  full  of 

power.  He  wanted,  not  sleep,  but  dream "who  loved  his 

friend.  This  man  loved  his  friend  and  a  woman  came  into 
his  life  whom  he  loved  also.  He  asked  for  her  in  marriage, 
she  gave  her  promise.  So  he  went  to  his  friend  and  told  him. 
And  the  friend  cried:  'Do  not  wed  her.  Remain  with  me!' 
And  the  man  said:  'I  love  this  woman  but  you  are«my  friend. 
I  remain  with  you.'  He  dismissed  the  woman  whom  he  loved. 

"Now,  thereafter,  all  was  sorrow  in  the  home  of  the  man 
and  his  friend.  One  night  as  the  man  slept  an  angel  came  to 
him.  The  angel  said:  'Thou  who  art  so  loyal  to  thy  friend, 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  89 

name  a  wish  and  it  is  granted/  The  man,  half-unknown  to 
himself,  cried  out:  'Make  a  miracle!  Make  one  my  friend  and 
my  lover.  Then  I  may  be  loyal  and  yet  be  happy.'  The 
angel  smiled.  'So  it  is  already.'  The  angel  disappeared." 

Tom  paused.  A  sudden  discomfort  came  upon  his  face. 
He  rushed  back  to  his  tale  as  to  haven:  ".  .  .  at  once  the  man 
awoke.  He  found  himself  in  his  bed.  He  remembered  the 
angel's  visitation.  He  believed  it.  He  ran  to  the  sleeping 
chamber  of  his  friend,  expecting  to  behold  a  miracle.  It  was 
his  friend,  his  unchanged  friend  who  slept  there.  The  man 
cursed  and  smote  his  breast.  Then  a  great  light  came  to  him. 
He  understood.  He  returned,  both  loyal  and  happy." 

David  sat  there. 

This  Cornelia  understood.  Tom  was  on  one  of  his  moody 
jaunts  and  away.  She  had  sat  there  watching  as  a  girl  on  a 
fence  might  watch  a  horseman  gallop  past  in  dust  and  hoof- 
thud.  She  recoiled  as  he  swung  in  too  near. 

Tom  laughed.  "Come!  You  need  some  more  coffee,"  to 
David.  "You  are  half  asleep.  I  can't  get  along  without  coffee. 
Can  you?  The  world  is  so  much  a  dream,  one's  sense  of, 
fitness  makes  one  go  to  sleep  beholding  it.  I  find  I  can  do 
endless  work,  with  endless  cups  of  coffee.  I  wonder  who  in 
vented  coffee.  A  shame,  isn't  it,  that  the  true  benefactors  of 
the  human  race  are  nameless.  The  Gods  tied  Prometheus  to  a 
rock  arid  set  a  vulture  on  him,  for  giving  us  fire.  The  other 
saviors  of  life  they  have  made  nameless." 

He  skipped  nimbly  from  parable  to  fun:  from  apostrophe 
to  laughter.  David  found  himself  loving  the  mere  exercise  of 
following  his  new  friend.  It  was  like  a  cross-country  run 
with  an  agile  pathman.  Over  brook  and  rock  he  tried  to  leap 
with  him.  No  time  to  look  and  to  consider.  The  way  was 
nothing,  the  leaping  everything. 

The  story  was  forgotten.  It  was  shivered  away  in  the  pelt 
of  Tom's  succeeding  words. 


QO  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

Cornelia  was  silent.  She  was  pensive.  She  had  stopped 
listening  to  Tom.  When  he  went  galloping  like  this,  he  was 
running  away  from  something  deep  in  himself.  She  knew. 
He  would  take  this  thing  within  him  he  needed  to  escape  and 
toss  it  far  and  rush  after  it.  Let  him  rush. 

There  was  David  laughing.  Tom  no  longer  needed  to 
smoke  cigarettes.  David  was  glowing  near  his  finger-tips. 

Coffee  was  gone.  Night  had  come  up  from  the  street  like 
incense  of  incantation.  It  curled  its  way  into  the  room,  it 
subdued  the  flame  of  the  room  to  a  warm  ash. 

Tom  lighted  a  lamp.  No  one  spoke.  A  golden  ray  filtered 
about  the  table.  It  left  them  in  shadows.  David  got  up  to 
leave. 

"I  was  so  happy  to  be  here,"  he  said. 

Cornelia  clasped  his  hand  deeply  in  her  own.  It  was  warm. 
She  found  it  hard  to  speak.  "Boy!"  her  heart  sang  to  him. 
She  managed  to  say:  "You  must  come  soon  again."  .  .  . 
"And  again  and  again."  Her  heart  had  the  last  word. 

Tom  took  David  down  through  the  dark  halls  where  gas- 
jets  shivered  like  emprisoned  birds.  He  was  not  happy  with 
this  last  silence  of  Cornelia.  It  was  as  if  she  had  said:  "Why 
do  you  bring  a  guest  here  and  then  insult  him  and  not  let  him 
even  know  that  this  is  what  you  have  done?" 

His.eyes  were  hot,  the  hand  that  took  David's  was  cold. 

"Good-by,"  he  said,  "I  hope  we  are  going  to  be — friends?" 

"Oh,  yes!"  exclaimed  David.  .  .  . 

David  walked  under  swaying  houses.  They  were  aburst 
with  broken  flame.  He  walked  among  scattered  men  and 
women  driven  with  unbelieving  will  and  eyes  unseeing  toward 
these  fires — toward  fires  that  meant  love  to  them  and  warmth. 
It  was  the  evening  before  work:  the  breach  in  the  dull  circle 
of  toil.  Hearts  were  released.  Blood  surged  in  vain  en 
couragement  through  the  habit-hardened  lives  of  the  workers. 
Men  and  women  were  floods  of  longing  torrenting  the  streets. 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  91 

.  .  .David  walked  under  the  spread  wings  of  his  own  sweet 
mood.  Life  was  full.  Full  of  the  play  of  voices  and  of  bodies: 
full  of  adventure.  Life  was  the  mystery  of  finding.  .  .  . 

No  one  else  was  at  home,  that  evening.  Anne  brought  early 
tea  to  Lois  and  to  David. 

"It  is  our  house  to-night,"  Lois  was  playful. 

A  strange  exhilaration  still  sang  and  worked  in  him.  He 
looked  at  the  girl  who  had  shared  those  sweltering  nights:  he 
looked  at  Lois  flattering  his  new  ease.  It  all  seemed  right  to 
David.  It  was  right  that  Anne  had  been  there  to  take.  He 
smiled  on  her  masterfully.  The  girl  was  fearful  lest  the  young 
Miss  understand.  But  we  can  bring  to  our  minds  through 
intuition  only  such  thoughts  our  minds  have  words  for.  The 
remote  amour  was  an  unthought-of,  an  impossible  thing  to 
Lois.  Anne's  own  senses,  feeling  this  as  they  groped  forward, 
again  came  to  rest. 

She  waited  on  them  with  a  sweet  dignity.  It  was  so  plain 
she  was  a  woman.  A  woman  was  a  creature  whose  life  was 
nourished  by  herself.  A  creature  free  of  the  world.  David  felt 
this,  as  they  sat  munching  at  table.  It  was  the  quiet  serving 
girl  who  made  him  think  of  woman.  With  her  blood  she  nur 
tured.  In  her  womb,  at  her  breast,  with  her  hands,  forever  her 
own  mute  spirit  giving  men  food.  Woman  was  the  true  master 
of  life:  the  sourceless  god. 

David  looked  at  Lois.  A  faint  chill  went  through  him.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  Lois  was  not  quite  woman.  She  was  less 
herself,  than  this  waiting  servant.  He  felt  her  need  of  sus 
tenance,  her  lack  in  this  of  godhood. 

Anne  helped  her  to  cake.  There  she  was  cutting  the  cake, 
simply — sublimely?  Lois  was  above  the  table  like  a  flower. 
He  thought  of  the  strength  of  Anne's  abandon:  of  the  wise 
strength  of  her  withdrawal.  Wisdom  and  strength — for  him! 
^Cornelia  came  also.  She,  too,  was  more  woman.  Already 


92  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

there  was  lodged  the  seed  of  dissolution  in  his  heart  for  Lois, 
before  the  climax  of  his  caring. 

Upstairs,  he  went  far  toward  it.  Lois'  arm  was  about  him, 
the  air  of  her  body  stabbed  his  blood:  he  forgot  his  com 
parisons.  He  was  quite  sure  he  loved  Lois.  They  sat  so 
close  together,  and  often  she  placed  her  cheek  against  his  lips. 
He  saw  the  fine  tautness  of  her  body  hiding  beneath  the  flimsy 
frock  it  wore.  He  desired  her  body.  He  desired  to  break  its 
tautness. 

"Is  it  wrong,  Lois  dear,  to  love  one's  cousin?  Because  I  love 
you  very  much." 

"It  is  extremely  proper." 

A  fire  had  been  fanned  in  him  that  afternoon:  fanned  by 
Cornelia.  It  burned  for  Lois. 

He  viced  her  shoulders  in  his  hands  and  looked  at  her,  as  one 
stiffens  before  a  leap.  His  hands  slipped  upward  to  her  head. 
The  thrill  of  her  skin  and  her  flesh  flowed  through  his  hands 
like  blood.  He  held  her  face.  He  wanted  to  tell  her  how  he 
loved  her.  His  own  face  came  nearer,  it  was  like  a  death  and 
a  birth:  a  frenzy  of  change. 

She  thrust  her  head  downward,  his  mouth  sank  in  the  mesh 
of  her  hair  behind  her  ear. 

He  was  panting.  "Why  don't  you  let  me  kiss  you — as  I 
trmst?" 

Lois  withdrew  her  body.    Her  mood  was  not  changed. 

"Don't  be  silly,  David.    I  can't  let  you  kiss  me,  that  way." 

He  was  silent.  He  did  not  gainsay  her.  He  wanted  to  hide 
his  face.  Something  started  up  in  his  breast  and  beat  against 
his  breathing,  hurt  him. 

Not  the  denial  of  the  kiss.  It  was  the  sudden  pierce  of  her 
insensitiveness.  She  had  not  cared  to  understand  how  he 
cared  for  her.  And  when  he  had  longed  for  her  mouth,  her 
mood  had  not  changed! 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  93 

If  only  it  had!  If  only  she  had  been  moved — though  it 
was  in  denial. 

He  had  at  times  believed  he  saw  her  little  body  stir  with 
passion  when  he  was  near  her.  But  so  faintly,  so  containedly. 
Never  a  doubt  of  her  control.  Something  she  tasted  in  ex 
quisite  moderation  and  enjoyed.  In  her  denial  she  was  cool. 
It  was  as  if  her  hunger  for  a  closer  kiss  were  a  question  an 
swered  in  her  catechism:  one  she  knew  all  about:  one  she  had 
learned  the  answer  of  by  rote. 

There  she  was  smiling,  chatting.  She  had  already  forgotten. 
He  looked  away  and  heard  the  mutterings  of  his  pain  that 
she  could  be  smiling,  chatting. 

With  dull  head  David  went  to  his  work. 

He  loved  Lois  and  rebelled  against  his  love.  She  gave  him 
no  ground  on  which  to  hate  her.  Always  his  love  was  watch 
ing,  watching  for  a  pause  in  which  to  whisper:  "See?  You 
do  her  injustice.  She  is  not  hard  and  flippant.  She  is  young 
and  unknowing.  She  does  not  feel  a  deeper  love.  How  much 
sun  can  a  bud  hold  in  its  tight  petals?" 

She  was  not  different.  She  sought  him  out.  She  allowed 
him  no  escape.  One  day,  she  said: 

"Why  don't  you  kiss  me  any  more?" 

David  took  her  hand  and  kissed  that,  tenderly,  hopelessly. 
Lois  laughed.  She  thought  he  was  teasing  her.  She  fell  in 
with  his  little  game. 

Work  was  already  a  tune  David  knew  by  heart.  Fortunate 
ly,  since  his  head  was  dull.  The  year  approached  its  scintil- 
lant  climax.  And  David's  head  was  dull  and  his  heart  was 
heavy. 

One  bitter  cold  day  he  stepped  out  for  his  lunch. 

When  he  could  he  lunched  alone.  It  was  a  problem  of 
avoiding  Duer  Tibbetts  whom  he  emphatically  did  not  like, 
but  who  went  on  blandly  liking  David.  It  surprised  David 


94  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

how  little  his  own  attitude  and  his  inner  mood  affected  his 
relations  with  that  blossoming  gentleman  of  affairs.  It  was 
almost  as  if,  in  the  reality  of  their  business  and  family  con 
nections,  so  slight  a  thing  as  personal  taste  must  fade  away,  did 
not  count.  He  had  often  lunched  with  other  boys  in  the  office 
— the  sort  who  Duer  said  were  not  "their  sort."  He  liked  them, 
until  he  began  in  this  very  approach  to  have  discomfort  in 
their  friendship.  Since  the  bursting  of  his  wound  with  Lois 
he  sought  to  be  alone.  He  was  equally  surprised  by  the 
sensitive  response  of  these  others.  They  felt  his  aloofness  in 
the  office:  they  honored  it.  They  were  different  indeed  from 
Duer. 

He  walked  toward  the  cluttered  food-pen  where  the  wait 
resses  sweated  visibly  at  the  arm-pits.  Here  lunch  cost  him 
only  twenty  cents.  The  place  was  at  least  clean,  and  the  food 
good.  The  eggs  for  instance,  and  the  butter — details  that 
meant  much  for  David.  He  sat  huddled  at  a  long  porcelain 
board.  From  whirling  waitresses  in  white  the  dishes  fell  with 
clamorous  approximation  near  his  place.  In  the  rear  was  an 
endless  catatonic  beat  of  crockery  and  voices.  The  whole 
place  roared  like  the  shatter  of  a  mighty  loom  that  wove  the 
calls  of  women  into  the  brittle  shower  of  china,  the  glint  of 
knives  into  the  shuffle  of  feet.  David  sat  and  took  his  food 
and  held  his  big  arms  tight  to  his  body.  The  fresh  air  as  he 
left  gave  him  the  cumulated  picture. 

This  day  he  heard  a  clear  voice  at  his  side  speak  his  name 
in  the  cold  street. 

He  turned:  there  was  Miss  Lord. 

Caroline  Lord  held  a  higher  place  in  Deane  and  Company 
than  any  other  woman.  These  were  days  before  the  spread 
of  advertising  agents.  Miss  Lord  was  in  charge  of  the  cor 
respondence  department.  She  had  a  little  office  of  her  own, 
and  a  male  assistant  and  a  stenographer.  She  was  known  as 
a  remarkable  woman. 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  95 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Markand?"  She  had  evidently  over 
taken  David  and  now  they  were  walking  together. 

He  saw  her  casually  in  and  out  of  the  long  packed  room 
where  David  fumbled  figures  and  papers.  She  was  a  remote 
nsiness  detail  of  this  still  strange  world.  One  day,  Tib- 
betts  dragged  him  into  her  little  office  and  introduced  him. 
He  remembered  the  way  she  sat  on  her  desk  and  chatted 
cannily  and  bit  at  a  pencil.  The  smile  of  her  white  teeth  was 
beyond  the  reach  of  David's  comfort.  He  was  glad  to  get 
away. 

Here  she  was  being  affable  again. 

"I  presume  you  were  going  to  lunch,  Mr.  Markand?" 

He  noticed  that  she  kept  step  with  him.  She  was  a  big 
and  capable  woman. 

"Y— yes,"  he  admitted. 

"Do  you  like  your  work?  Perhaps  you  are  tired  at  night. 
Am  I  right?  Oh,  never  worry  about  that.  When  you  get 
used — more  used  to  it,  it  will  take  less  out  of  you." 

They  had  passed  his  eating  place.  What  should  he  do?  He 
began  cursing  himself.  It  was  so  wide  in  him  that  he  did  not 
want  to  invite  her  to  lunch.  In  her,  that  this  was  precisely 
what  she  expected.  He  was  a  reed  before  her  silent  pressure. 
There  she  was  talking,  as  if  they  had  an  hour  to  be  together. 

"We  were  up  on  the  Palisades  last  Sunday.  You  must  really 

have  some  of  your  friends  take  you "  David  fumbled  in 

his  pocket.  His  fare  downtown  that  morning  had  broken  his 
last  dollar.  He  had  a  way  of  not  keeping  much  of  his  money 
with  him.  It  seemed  a  risky  thing  to  do  in  a  wild  City.  His 
pocket  held  ninety-five  cents!  Lunch  for  two  at  a  decent 
restaurant  was  a  catastrophe  that  simply  could  not  be!  She 
was  trudging  along:  subtly  pushing  him  toward  Broadway. 
The  lunch-places  of  the  rich  were  near. 

"Doubtless  you  have  a  lunch  engagement  .  .  .  ?" 


96  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

"No.  But.  .  .  ."  He  stopped,  she  stopped.  He  blushed 
and  she  smiled. 

"No?    Well  then,  we  might  have  a  bite  together." 

Why  could  he  never  lie?     How  he  despised  himself! 

"I — I  can't,  Miss  Lord.     I  have  only  ninety-five  cents." 

He  felt  naked  before  her.  A  lady  should  blush  and  go 
away  when  one  stood  naked  before  her.  There  was  Miss  Lord 
laughing:  swinging  her  weight  back  joyously  on  one  heel  the 
better  to  observe  him. 

"Oh,  isn't  it  always  a  joke  when  we  find  ourselves  short? 
I  understand  so  well.  Won't  you  be  my  guest,  Mr.  Markand?" 

She  tilted  her  head  back.  David  noticed  how  small  her 
bonnet  was  above  the  mass  of  her  hair.  "You  know,"  she 
went  on,  "it  was  really  my  invitation  after  all." 

"Oh — I — no — I."     Her  light  mood  was  an  added  weight. 

She  was  quick  to  understand  and  to  redispose  her  forces. 
"Then  you  must  permit  me  to  lend  you  five  dollars.  There 
now.  I'll  be  offended  if  you  don't."  She  dug  in  her  bag  and 
held  out  a  bill.  "Why  should  you  discriminate  against  a 
fellow?" 

David  paused  long  enough  to  try  to  see  with  what  he  thought 
her  generous  eyes  the  foolish  panic  he  was  in.  He  gathered 
himself.  They  both  laughed.  He  took  the  bill. 

"It  is  good  of  you,"  he  said. 

"And  of  you,"  she  answered. 

She  was  silent  and  meek  while  the  waiter  took  the  order. 
He  was  gone.  She  began. 

She  talked  methodically.  She  chose  her  specific  subject 
and  cribbed  him  in  it.  It  was  plain  that  Caroline  Lord  de 
tested  vagueness  and  abhorred  disorder.  No  wide  fields  to 
roam  and  to  be  lost  in.  Miss  Lord  was  managing  this  lunch. 
Before  long  she  bored  him. 

In  the  emptiness  of  this,  he  could  retreat  a  bit  and  see  her. 

She  was  a  handsome  woman.    Her  age  was  beyond  David's 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  97 

knowing,  He  would  have  called  her  new,  rather  than  young. 
She  was  well-kept. 

"I  saw  a,  play  last  night  I  am  sure  would  have  interested 
you.  The  Blue  Daisy.  Have  you  seen  it?" 

He  said,  No. 

"Do  you  go  to  the  theater  much?" 

He  said,  No,  again. 

Miss  Lord  followed  her  plan.  She  had  a  catalogue  of  non- 
essential  subjects:  art,  politics,  life: — the  sort  to  be  served  at 
amicable  luncheons.  She  had  already  done  books. 

"Why — it's  the  story  of  two  brothers.  Let  me  see,  what  is 
their  name?  Daysplaings — Gass-tong  and  Rah-ool  Days- 
plaings.  There's  the  eldest  who  has  a  beautiful  estate  in 
Normand}^  The  young  one  is  sort  of  a  poet,  a  dreamer, 
you  know — wanders  about,  mostly  with  his  brother's  wife 
while " 

David  knew  he  was  going  to  hear  the  entire  story.  She  was 
a  handsome  woman. 

There  were  no  curves  in  her  face.  Her  chin  was  square  and 
her  mouth  was  straight.  The  poise  of  her  forehead  was  straight 
and  the  look  of  her  eyes  was  square. 

"Well,  you  can  imagine  what  happened  then.  But  it  didn't. 
The  idea  was  there.  That  is  bad  enough.  The  husband  was 
quite  right,  I  think.  ..." 

Miss  Lord  was  a  pattern  of  symmetry:  a  study  in  balance 
and  rule. 

Her  body  was  not  angular.  She  sat  very  straight  in  her 
chair.  "Then,  the  curtain  falls."  She  was  tall,  and  sitting 
she  topped  David.  "The  way  it  was  acted  had  a  good  deal  to 
do.  .  .  ."  She  came  forward  a  little.  Her  hands  were  half 
shut  and  flanked  her  head.  Her  arms  were  two  columns  prop 
ping  some  splendid  official  building. 

"Of  course,"  she  was  saying,  "that  sort  of  thing  seems  to 


98  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

be  common  in  France.  They're  a  decadent  race,  you  know. 
Clever,  though!'7 

Yes:  her  body  was  indeed  not  angular  like  her  face.  Her 
arms  were  ample.  David  could  see  the  suggestion  of  flesh 
bursting  the  plain  white  sleeves.  Her  bosom  was  voluptuously 
full.  Were  these  not  feminine  curves,  these  suave  rounded 
masses?  He  felt  the  solidity  of  Miss  Lord  more  somehow 
than  her  sex.  Sex  is  an  aura,  not  a  form.  Women  under 
stand  this  best.  But  a  certain  lack  puzzled  David.  It  was 
strange  for  him  to  sit  so  close  to  this  lovely  woman  and  not 
feel  her  lovely:  to  see  her  flawless  and  be  unwarmed. 

"  'Oh,'  the  Irishman  pointed,  'she's  an  Irish  bull/  " 

He  should  have  laughed  at  this  joke.  He  was  full  of  the 
pain  of  Lois.  Suddenly,  he  was  thinking  of  Lois. 

"And  what  do  you  say,"  it  was  the  first  question  she  had 
asked  him  in  many  minutes,  "to  Tammany's  victory!  After 
three  years  of  splendid  reconstruction?" 

It  was  part  of  Miss  Lord's  program  to  discuss  politics.  Miss 
Lord  was  no  "crank  on  women's  rights,"  as  she  put  it.  That 
was  too  serious  a  view  of  the  thing.  Above  all,  or  under  all, 
she  wanted  you  to  know  that  she  was  a  woman:  she  wanted 
you  to  treat  her  as  a  woman.  But  a  strong,  wise  woman. 
One  who  could,  unblushing,  talk  of  adultery  in  a  French  play 
or  of  the  degradation  of  a  Tammany  campaign. 

"Why,"  David  answered,  "I  don't  know.  I  can't  under 
stand.  If  all  these  things  were  true  about  Tammany  Hall. 
.  .  .  There  must  be  something  else  behind  it  all:  some  reason 
why  Van  Wyck  was  elected." 

Miss  Lord  smiled.  This  was  his  opinion:  a  fledging's  she 
could  take  with  indulgence.  She  wanted  no  more  of  it.  Now 
she  could  deliver  her  own.  She  started. 

David  was  thinking  of  Lois.  Little  lovely  Lois.  Why  must 
his  mind  fill  so  compellingly  with  Lois,  when  he  lunched  with 
Miss  Lord? 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  99 

"The  thing  is,  you  see,  the  people  do  not  think.  Catch 
words  and  Sunday  picnics  win  them  over.  Really,  popular 
government " 

This  woman.  That  girl.  Could  two  creatures  be  more 
different?  Why  then  the  idea  of  a  comparison.  Bid  they 
have  something,  did  they  lack  something  in  common? 

".  .  .  so  far  at  least  a  failure." 

Their  ideas  were  one.  Here  was  Miss  Lord  trying  to  con 
ceal  the  impression  that  she  earned  her  living:  trying  with 
might  and  main  to  be  like  Lois.  An  older,  more  settled,  equal 
ly  virginal  Lois? 

He  half-closed  his  eyes.  It  did  not  matter.  Such  subtle 
things  as  eyes  half-closed  were  beyond  Miss  Lord.  Beyond 
Lois?  He  heard  her  voice.  "The  City  had  to  pay  ten  cents 
a-piece  for  coat-hooks!  A-piece!  When  you  can  buy  them 
anywhere  retail  for  a  nickel."  He  heard  her  voice.  It  was 
so  unlike  her  stalwart  strapping  body  that  he  had  not  noticed 
it  until  now  when  his  half-shut  eyes  saw  less.  Miss  Lord's 
voice  was  high,  was  girlish!  It  too  had  that  ring  which, 
though  David  knew  no  such  rule,  goes  with  an  emotionally 
empty  life.  Wise,  cool  Miss  Lord.  Did  she  have  really  more 
of  the  wine  of  feeling  than  pampered  Lois?  Was  she  more 
alive,  after  all? 

She  was  earning  her  living.  While  Lois  lolled  at  teas,  and 
waited  for  her  debut.  Earning  one's  bread — David  knew  what 
that  meant,  in  the  world.  It  meant  the  heights  and  the  depths. 
It  meant  nobility.  The  man  who  earned  his  bread  was  a 
man:  the  man  who  did  not  was  less  than  a  woman.  .  .  .  Did 
it  really  mean  these  things? 

He  had  earned  his  living  since  he  was  fifteen  years  old.  For 
five  years  done  this;  for  five  years  thought  nothing  about  it, 
thought  nothing  about  the  world.  That  was  strange.  He  had 
loafed  three  weeks  near  an  idle  lake  and  a  world  was  born. 
Was  earning  one's  bread  perhaps  a  trick  of  the  hand,  like 


ioo  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

placing  the  spokes  in  a  wheel?  What  had  the  droning  hours 
in  the  shop  brought  to  him?  Did  he  not  go  out  into  the 
breathing  fields  and  watch  his  mind  stir  to  expand?  Until 
there  had  been  three  weeks  of  this  and  his  mind  had  expanded. 
He  liked  work.  Was  it  perhaps  a  trifle  like  a  drug  that  one 
gets  used  to,  that  eases  one  off  from  the  world?  Here  he 
was,  juggling  with  steamship  deliveries  and  tinkering  ac 
counts.  Brainier  work  than  welding  handle-bars?  Life  could 
not  be  this.  Perhaps  this  wise  woman  who  earned  her  living 
did  not  know  life  after  all. 

At  least,  she  did  not  know  him.  She  had  bored  him:  she 
was  boring  him  now.  David  felt  he  knew  her  somewhat.  He 
was  not  boring  her.  .  .  . 

"It  has  been  such  fun,  Mr.  Markand.  After  all,  we  can't 
get  along,  can  we,  without  fresh  points  of  view?  They  mean 
success  in  business.  Not  plodding  counts,  you  will  find:  always 
the  fresh  point  of  view.  .  .  ." 

Her  judgments  were  cleaner-cut  than  his.  A  rubber-stamp 
is  clear.  What  lay,  in  truth,  behind  the  patter  of  her  phrases: 
"France  is  corrupt  but  clever."  "People  vote  according  to 
picnics  and  catchwords."  "After  all,  there  is  something  clean, 
something  big  which  America  stands  for,  that  no  other  country 
can  rival"? 

Lois  also  had  her  occupation.  She  received  no  salary  for  it: 
she  was  apprenticed  to  it  still.  She  would  get  her  place  in  the 
world,  if  she  pursued  it  well.  It  too  would  mean  money  and 
ease  and  position.  She  too  was  going  through  a  trick  that  was 
far  from  the  free  winds  of  living.  Did  not  both  these  women 
belong  to  Deane  and  Company? 

He  loved  Lois.  He  said  to  himself  he  loved  her.  This, 
woman  he  did  not  love.  So  he  saw  her  clearly.  Let  him 
swing  this  clear-seeing  back  into  the  dim  place  of  his  heart 
that  hurt!  It  was  impossible.  He  could  not  diminish  Lois 
after  all.  The  result  of  his  effort  was  to  dispose  him  more 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  101 

pleasantly  toward  Miss  Lord.  Here  he  was  smiling  at  her 
with  a  new  attention  that  a  less  wise  woman  might  have 
been  wise  enough  to  mistrust.  .  .  . 

He  came  away  with  a  gnawing  sense  of  doubt.  He  was 
heart-sick  more  deeply  than  ever.  Miss  Lord  and  his  cousin 
were  creatures  of  a  single  world.  They  performed  different 
parts  of  a  single  service.  Both  of  them  were  supposed  to 
uphold  the  prestige  of  this  system  that  made  money  and 
spent  it:  to  submit  to  its  standards  of  deed  and  thought,  to 
further  its  dominions.  For  this,  Miss  Lord  had  her  wages, 
Lois  her  keep. 

He  too!  He  too  had  been  taken  in  for  service!  For  service 
rendered  he  too  would  receive  the  means  of  sustaining  life. 
David  had  seen  a  coat-of-arrns  heralding  a  strange  device  on 
the  fagade  of  a  great  commercial  building.  It  had  puzzled  him. 
He  had  forgotten  it.  Now  he  recalled  it  and  understood  it. 
He  marveled  at  its  telling  word.  It  had  said:  "Spend  me 
and  defend  me." 

A  great  fright  was  being  born  in  David.  .  .  . 


TOM  RENNARD  and  his  sister  stood  under  a  house  with 
a  high  straight  stoop  like  a  dozen  alongside  it.  They 
looked  up.  Behind  them  their  passing  through  Stuy- 
vesant  Square.  The  sky  was  very  deep  and  warm  on  the 
moldering  housetops,  beyond  the  cool  clouds.  These 
skimmed  their  shadows  across  the  Park's  shut  green.  They 
threw  small  puffs  of  gray  on  the  gleaming  creepers  of  the 
Church.  They  dropped  to  the  squat  red  meeting-house  of  the 
Friends  and  lightened  its  brick  with  their  dark.  They  went 
westering*  over  the  bleak  dense  City. 

"This  is  the  number." 

They  mounted  the  stoop. 

Each  had  a  hand  on  the  iron  rail  that  rusted  under  crum 
bling  paint. 

'Ar  piercing  rabble  Igy  in  the  Park.  Jangle  of  horse-cars, 
stir  ahd  laughter"'  bf  'children,  the  dry  gasp  of  life  hot  over  the 
Padk  ifror.a  four  dense,  sides,  as  over  a  cool  well.  And  the 
Square 'merging' witn  th'ese  the  distances  it  caught  on  its 
church-steeple:  hoot  of  river  craft,  gashes  of  dull  speed  echo 
ing  into  sharpness  as  an  elevated  train  passed  through  muffled 
houses.  All  of  it  funneled  down  the  narrow  eastward  street 
that  fell  from  the  Square  to  the  River:  rose  above  the  shoul 
ders  of  these  two:  flattened  back  against  the  reticence  of 
brownstone  walls. 

"Not  a  bad  house,"  said  Tom.  "Relic  of  Knickerbocker 
glory.  Some  less  brilliant  Stuyvesant  cousin  may  have  lived  in 
it  once."  He  pulled  a  bell-handle:  its  call  pierced  and  lingered 

102 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  103 

in  the  old  mansion's  depths.  The  house  stood  unmoved  like  a 
ventriloquist. 

He  turned.  The  sun  was  aflame  in  the  Eastern  windows. 
He  faced  the  Park.  Slow  swarms  of  men  and  women  crawling 
and  scattering  like  bugs.  These  drew  away  his  thoughts  from 
the  house  and  Cornelia.  She  stood  laughing  at  the  orna 
mented  vestibule:  its  florid  crimson  plaster. 

"Strange,  isn't  it?"  she  said.  "When  they  tried  to  add 
beauty  to  their  houses  they  made  them  hideous.  Why  is 
it?  .  .  ." 

Tom's  new  partner,  Gilbert  Lomney,  who  was  a  cousin  of 
the  President  of  the  Fidelity  Bank,  who  was  a  nephew  of  the 
General  Manager  of  a  great  Railroad  System,  who  was  among 
the  loyal  stags  of  Mrs.  Astor's  balls,  who  was  a  fellow  with 
no  moral  and  no  professional  sense — he  wondered  how  he  was 
going  to  get  along  with  him.  He  brought  in  business  well 
enough.  But  Tom  had  misgivings.  He  thought  about  them 
now.  Lomney's  most  brilliant  feature  was  his  glasses:  his  best 
achievement  was  his  neckties.  His  glasses  had  a  way  of  catch 
ing  the  sun  whenever  there  was  any  sun  around.  His  neckties 
were  striped  and  of  three  colors.  Without  his  glasses,  Lomney 
was  dull.  Without  his  neckties,  he  would  be  naked.  His  eyes 
were  flat.  His  complexion  was  habitually  gray.  About  his 
mouth  were  the  heavy  lines,  the  puffing  pucker  that  denote  a 
sluggish  kinetic  system.  One  thing,  to  be  sure:  Lomney's 
head  was  long — what  Tom  knew  to  be  a  generous  head.  But 
he  was  not  sure  of  the  brows  that  seemed  dissociate  from  his 
eyes.  Well:  this  was  his  partner.  That  day  there  had  been 
a  rub  in  the  office. 

Lomney  came  in  smiling  in  the  morning. 

"Rennard,"  he  said,  "is  there  no  way  of  getting  out  of  this 
contract  cheaper  than  by  paying  the  indemnity?" 

"Why  doesn't  Murchison  pay  it?  Good  God!  it's  scarcely  a 
mutual  document  at  that!" 


104  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

"Well,  if  he  has  to,  he'll  have  less  respect  for  us." 

Both  of  them  knew  that  Murchison  could  afford  to  be  fair: 
that  Sampson  could  not  afford  to  be  cheated.  But,  "It's  not 
a  question  of  that,"  said  Lomney,  "It's  a  question  of  how 
we  are  going  to  stand  at  79  Broadway." 

"Let's  have  all  the  facts — since  the  contract."  Tom  easily 
devised  a  plan.  He  had  taken  it  to  Lomney,  who  rejoiced. 

"Come  out  to  lunch,  oh,  Daniel!"  He  flourished  a  silver- 
headed  cane. 

"No,  I've  an  engagement." 

"Very  well.    Ta-ta.    I'll  not  be  back  to-day." 

Tom  sulked  at  his  lonely  lunch.  He  did  not  mind  the  trick 
he  had  played  for  Lomney's  client.  But  the  unctuous  pleasure 
of  his  partner  was  an  ill  thing  to  accept.  It  made  him  clear 
away  his  desk  that  afternoon  with  a  fresh  disgust:  and  be 
improperly  amiable  to  Ladd,  their  abject  clerk:  and  smile  at 
Lomney's  fizzle  of  a  brief  to  be  argued  in  the  morning. 

"Let  him  lose  the  damn  motion,  I'll  win  it  back  on  ap 
peal  for  him.  More  glory,  more  money "  Standing  on 

the  stoop,  Tom  saw  and  added:  " — More  satisfaction  in  having 
Lomney  lose." 

He  went  on,  while  his  body  waited:  "Why  should  I  be 
doing  these  clever  things  for  the  half  benefit  of  Gilbert  Lom 
ney?  Don't  I  know?  I  have  the  brains,  but  he  has  the  pull 
and  the  people.  Face  it,  man,  it's  the  game." 

He  knew  he  would  have  to.  There  was  little  use  in  being 
clever  at  the  Law  save  one  could  sell  one's  cleverness.  There 
was  little  use  in  treasuring  even  in  some  mute  corner  of  his 
soul  the  dream  that  ability,  unorganized,  was  profitable.  It 
could  only  spoil  his  humor:  perhaps  his  chances.  Some  day, 
Lomney  might  find  him  lunching  alone  and  think  it  queer. 
This  above  all  must  be  avoided.  Lomney  had  his  Class's 
phobia  for  queerness.  He  would  not  have  trusted  Solomon  in 
an  outlandish  cut  of  vest. 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  105 

Coming  this  late  afternoon  to  see  his  friend,  Tom  found  the 
check  on  his  tangents  of  mood  abominably  hard.  He  must 
take  Lomney  to  his  bosom  and  cherish  him:  as  a  man  should 
another  who  was  to  multiply  his  power.  .  .  . 

Waiting  made  them  pensive,  forgetful.  The  doors  of  the 
vestibule  sucked  suddenly  in.  Cornelia  and  Tom  gathered 
themselves  with  an  alacrity  determined  by  their  recovery  from 
its  opposite.  A  woman  was  there.  Her  bare  arms  were  folded: 
a  gray  apron  spread  across  her  body  like  a  sooty  mist  over 
a  fertile  field. 

As  they  stepped  in  they  left  the  day.  They  entered  another 
time.  In  the  transition  they  were  quick  to  both.  It  was  Sep 
tember  and  hot.  Beyond  the  bricks  and  the  pavements,  Indian 
Summer  made  the  world  glad.  Trees  waved  in  their  new 
bright  colors  like  flowers  sprung  up  over  night:  earth  was 
a-dance  with  insects,  was  leaping  drunk  from  sharp  liquors: 
air  trilled  with  seeds  for  the  next  Spring.  In  New  York  heat 
was  empty.  Tom  and  Cornelia  thought  this.  David  also. 

He  sat  upstairs  in  his  room,  looking  over  the  Square. 

Tom  and  Cornelia  were  out  of  the  day  and  into  the  hall. 
About  them  the  odor  of  endless  passions,  innumerable  steps: 
the  acerb  sad  odor  of  the  lodging  house.  More  lasting  and 
more  real  it  was  than  the  lives  of  the  creatures  who  came 
and  who  went.  Here  in  this  breath  of  the  dark  halls,  their  one 
permanence. 

David  had  but  recently  moved  in.  The  room  was  still 
somewhat  strange  to  him:  it  was  hard  to  rest  in  it,  to  rest 
asleep  in  it.  Being  with  it  stirred  his  nerves.  The  need  of 
repose  sent  him  to  sitting  in  the  Park.  Also,  he  was  still  weary 
in  the  change  from  his  vacation  spent  in  the  mountains  with  the 
Deanes.  The  first  days  of  return  had  been  dense  ringing 
blows  on  the  slumber  of  his  nerves  that  were  once  more  glad — 
glad  as  never  before — in  the  free  welcome  of  the  woods.  This 
was  gone — gone  echoing  as  David  refitted  to  the  City. 


io6  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

He  was  pensive,  waiting  for  his  friends  to  see  his  new  room 
and  take  him  to  dinner. 

He  sat  with  his  elbows  on  the  base  of  the  open  window 
and  was  glad  when  the  breeze  touched  his  face.  Also  he  was 
a  little  irritated  when  it  fingered  upward  and  threw  his  hair 
in  his  eyes.  He  had  to  move  his  hand  to  move  his  hair.  Un 
welcome.  His  mood  was  the  immobile  one  in  which  the  Past 
alone  may  move.  The  wind  was  the  stir  of  the  outer  world, 
the  world  in  which  was  his  future  and  from  whose  moving  he 
was  momently  apart. 

It  had  been  hard  to  leave  the  comfortable  Deanes  because 
they  were  so  good  to  him  and  made  him  welcome  and  made 
him  feel  that  he  was  theirs.  It  was  a  little  easier  to  go,  be 
cause  of  Lois.  She  held  him  suffering  near  to  her,  with  her 
lips  turned  away.  But  the  real  reason  of  his  going  was  a 
hidden  spring  that  David  could  not  name.  He  knew  vaguely 
his  going  had  to  do  with  this  same  comfort  which  made  his 
going  hard.  One  quality  held  him,  drove  him.  There  was 
much  to  ponder  in  this,  since,  had  he  but  known  it,  there  was 
much  of  David  in  this.  He  needed  to  move  on. 

He  found  reasons  for  his  impulse,  worthy  reasons  that  his 
aunt  and  uncle  were  the  first  to  admire. 

One  morning  in  the  mountains,  sudden,  he  listened  to  his 
words:  "Aunt  and  Uncle,"  he  said,  "don't  you  think  I  will 
be  training  better  for  an  independent  life  if  I  learn  to  do  with 
out  your  dear  hospitality?" 

A  ponderous  sentence.  It  emptied  David  whose  native 
tongue  was  rounded,  poetic,  simple.  He  stood  ponderous  and 
awkward  like  it,  above  his  uncle. 

Mr.  Deane  was  in  white  flannels  and  a  blazer  coat  that  was 
almost  unheard-of  in  America  and  had  come  blushing  from 
London.  It  was  red  and  yellow  and  purple:  striped  it  was  and 
flaring  in  front  so  as  to  leave  way  for  the  hospitable  stomach. 
Mr.  Deane  sat  curling  his  legs  and  peacefully  tasting  his  cigar. 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  107 

One  difference  in  Mr.  Deane  on  a  vacation  was  his  less  un 
nerved  way  with  his  cigars.  In  the  City  he  chewed  them, 
in  the  country  he  smoked  them.  Mr.  Deane  was  altogether  a 
more  delightful  and  more  generous  person.  His  little  blue 
eyes  looked  larger  as  if  they  were  more  alive:  his  cheeks 
hung  less  heavy:  his  sparse  hair  was  less  awry.  In  particular, 
his  voice  was  different,  what  he  said.  It  came  in  less  hectic 
bursts,  less  flurries  of  sudden  release.  His  voice  was  almost 
an  easy  monotone.  He  could  speak  more  on  a  single  subject 
without  wandering  or  strutting  away.  He  could  find  more 
subjects  on  which  to  speak.  In  the  City  any  family  discus 
sion  left  him  somehow  outside,  though  he  himself  had  started 
it.  His  eyes  stared  away,  he  retired,  he  became  abstracted. 
Soon  he  was  forgotten.  He  sat  there  at  the  table,  chewing  his 
cigar,  glassily  looking  inward.  His  brow  furrowed  moistly,  his 
cheek-jowls  had  pleats  like  an  old  dog's.  .  .  .  But  this  Mr. 
Deane  was  alert  and  full  of  jests.  Each  afternoon,  he  trudged 
forth  with  Lois  and  David,  grunting  along  a  tree-swooned 
road  to  a  distant  woody  place  where  he  might  ply  them  with 
candies  and  tea.  He  appeared  in  the  morning,  a  racket  in 
hand: 

"Well,  young  man,  are  you  ready  to  be  beaten?" 
And  since  David  was  a  beginner  at  tennis,  his  uncle  whipped 
him.  He  twisted  his  body  into  intricate  designs,  he  served  a 
high  slow  ball,  surged  forward  with  racket  en  couche  like  a 
spear  or  en  garde  like  a  shield.  He  laughed  when  Lois  laughed 
from  her  bench,  was  happy  in  his  6-4  victory  over  David — 
far  more  happy,  it  seemed  to  David,  than  any  business  success 
had  made  him  in  the  City. 

The  brief  time  her  father  was  with  her  in  the  country,  Lois 
escaped  her  friends.  The  pair  played  and  chatted  together: 
occasionally,  she  read  him  a  story  from  one  of  the  magazines 
or  faced  him  over  a  card-table.  And  these  activities,  in  which 
David  joined  on  his  own  brief  sojourn  from  work,  went  on 


io8  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

without  the  interest,  almost  without  the  notice  of  Muriel  and 
Mrs.  Deane. 

Summer  to  them  meant  merely  a  transfer  from  the  City  of 
the  business  and  paraphernalia  of  City  life.  "A  change  of 
air"  was  what  they  said,  and  what  they  actually  meant.  They 
were  sure  to  go  where  the  greatest  number  of  their  friends 
went  also.  Such  activities  and  such  relations  as  the  summer 
brought  of  itself  they  disqualified  before  the  more  serious  con 
tinuance  of  City  social  life.  Of  course  Lois  could  not  be 
spared:  but  she  was  far  less  tolerant  with  the  free  toss  of  the 
greenland  and  the  glint  of  a  lake  to  formulate  her  appetite 
for  somewhat  else.  There  seemed  less  excuse  for  her  dapper 
friends  and  the  conventions  of  pleasure,  under  the  stars  and 
out  in  the  open  breezes.  Lois  could  not  know  that  these  en 
hanced  her  feeling  for  herself:  that  it  was  against  this  feeling 
the  world  so  painfully  grated. 

The  indifference  of  Muriel  and  Mrs.  Deane  was  a  delicious 
pretext  for  defiance.  Not  the  least  charm  for  Mr.  Deane's 
spirited  revival  was  this  half-sheepish,  half-crude  flaunting 
of  revolt  into  the  proper  faces  of  his  wife  and  daughter.  It 
was  as  if  he  said:  "I  have  my  own  way  of  taking  a  vacation. 
You  think  it  foolish.  Doubtless  it  is.  But  it  is  a  vacation." 

Now,  in  this  climax  of  ease  and  pleasure,  something  spiteful 
had  to  commence  to  stir  in  David,  to  spoil  it  all.  Something 
that  came  with  a  new  burst  of  feeling  for  Lois,  with  a  new 
glow  of  comfort  in  this  family  that  was  so  glad  to  have  him. 

There  was  no  doubt  of  that.  His  aunt's  note  of  a  year  ago 
had  invited  him  to  the  house  "until  you  find  a  comfortable 
and  proper  place  for  yourself  in  the  City."  By  Spring  he  knew 
that  they  had  put  aside  all  thoughts  of  his  leaving,  and  that 
his  uncle  had  no  doubts  of  his  being  able  to  "do"  downtown. 

The  Spanish  war  burst,  half  frolic,  half  business,  upon  the 
country.  In  February  the  battleship  "Maine"  went  down  in 
Havana  harbor.  In  March,  the  Inquiry  Commission  backed 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  109 

the  voices  of  papers  and  politicians  shrilling  for  war,  by  its 
dubious  decision  that  an  outside  mine  had  done  the  damage. 
Congress  turned  its  trick  of  political  revolution.  President 
McKinley  was  swept  from  the  saddle.  His  reservations  were 
set  at  naught:  his  reluctances  were  negated  to  weakness.  In 
April  came  the  call  for  volunteers. 

The  crisis  caught  David  in  a  tender  mood.  Stirrings  of 
doubt  concerning  business  and  politics  had  died.  This  energy 
was  being  poured  as  fuel  into  the  flame  of  Lois.  As  his  energy 
bubbled  up,  there  it  went.  There  grew  indifference  for  other 
things — for  all  things.  Something  in  the  casual  technique 
of  Lois  kept  the  flame  from  spreading:  sealed  it  in  a  tight 
place  where  it  danced  by  itself,  rather  merrily  than  tragically: 
smartingly  rather  than  to  a  sear.  David  went  on  with  his 
affairs. 

His  weekly  salary  had  been  raised  five  dollars.  He  left  off 
going  to  food-pens  for  luncheon.  The  spirit  of  earning  more 
made  him  careless  about  spending.  He  came  to  find  Miss 
Lord  less  noxious  and  took  to  asking  her  to  an  occasional 
meal.  He  went  to  theater,  read  novels,  liked  his  Aunt  Lauretta. 
He  tried  to  keep  clear  of  Lois:  but  after  all  the  pleasure  of 
her  company  was  far  more  real  than  the  pain.  He  saw  the 
Rennards  frequently:  but  their  apart  opinions  stayed  apart, 
they  did  not  merge  with  him.  His  emotions  and  his  nerves 
were  a  blind  swirl  within  a  rigid  life. 

Now,  the  call  for  volunteers.  He  was  young  and  strong. 
Was  it  not  his  move  to  answer?  He  did  not  want  to  go.  He 
was  comfortable  in  his  new  indifference.  Doubtless,  the  Cubans 
were  not  comfortable.  But  they  were  very  far  away. 

He  brought  his  problem  to  Tom.  He  did  not  know  what 
he  wanted  of  his  question. 

"Lord,  man!     Don't  be  a  fool." 

David  had  never  seen  his  friend  so  moved,  so  angry,  so 


no  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

tenderly  savage.  Tom  jumped  from  his  seat  and  paced  the 
room.  His  hands  were  fists. 

"David,"  he  stopped  before  him  and  spoke  with  a  hot  re 
straint,  "I  am  ashamed  of  you.  Why  the  Devil  should  you 
want  to  go  to  War?" 

David  was  sprawling  in  a  wide  Morris  chair.  He  curled  up 
a  little  under  this  onslaught  like  a  furry  caterpillar. 

"Who  is  to  go,  if  unmarried  fellows  like  myself  are  not?" 

"Who  is  to  go?"  Tom  blazed  at  him.  "Who  is  to  go?  I'll 
tell  you.  Loafers  who  have  nothing  better  to  do.  Men  who 
are  so  miserable  in  their  jobs  they'd  die  for  a  chance  to  get 
away.  Men  who  are  so  miserable  in  their  homes  they'll  die 
if  they  can't  get  away.  Unmarried,  healthy  men?  The  very 
last,  I  tell  you.  Let  the  sick  of  heart  and  the  sick  of  life  go 
first.  They'll  find  the  Cuban  fever  far  more  like  a  pleasant 
change." 

"This  is  no  time  to  be  flippant." 

"I  am  not  flippant." 

"Then  you're — you're  wrong.  This  is  an  unselfish  war  if 

ever  there  was  one "  Tom's  smile  choked  him.  "Well,  darn 

it:  we're  in  it.  We've  got  to  see  it  through,  however  you  may 
look  at  it." 

David  was  sensitive  enough  to  feel  the  deep  concern  which 
Tom's  cynicisms  covered.  This  was  why  he  stopped  his  words 
of  protestation.  Strange  unease  came  to  him  with  the  feeling. 
Tom  wanted  him  to  stay,  to  live.  Why  should  he  stir  against 
his  friend  because  of  that?  Tom  stormed,  making  his  friend 
ship  clearer,  showing  his  affection  warmer;  David  grew  colder, 
less  convinced,  almost  spitefully  set  against  him. 

He  stood  up.  "Well,"  as  if  to  make  an  end  of  an  unbearable 
thing,  "I  think  I  am  going  to  enlist." 

A  cloud  went  over  Tom  Rennard's  face.  It  was  gray,  fever 
ish.  His  hands  fell  out  as  if  a  current  had  crumpled  them  and 
gone. 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  in 

"It  is  up  to  you,"  he  said.    David  left.  .  .  . 

How  unfair,  how  like  a  woman  he  had  been!  Why?  Why 
did  this  brilliant  warm-hearted  comrade  lead  him  into  moods 
that  were  womanish  and  unfair?  He  had  left  Tom  as  if  Tom 
had  insulted  him.  Could  he  have  left  otherwise,  if  Tom  had 
said:  "By  all  means  go.  You're  not  worth  saving.'* 

It  was  strange.  It  brooded  in  David  for  several  inactive 
days. 

Tom  sat  long,  fingering  his  hurt,  with  a  cold  smile  wavering 
away.  His  mind  reached  back  to  the  first  afternoon  of  the 
three  at  Cornelia's  studio:  to  the  parable  he  had  thrown  off 
and  that  had  had  no  sequel.  Was  this  hostility  of  David's 
perhaps  its  sequel? 

He  stopped  smiling. 

"God  send,  at  any  rate,  he  doesn't  go!" 

And  Tom  did  not  believe  in  God.  He  believed  in  himself. 
The  very  following  day  he  saw  Mr.  Deane  in  the  latter's 
office. 

Mr.  Deane  beamed  on  him.  "I  have  heard  a  great  deal 
of  you,  Mr.  Rennard — from  my  nephew.  What  can  I  do  for 
you?" 

"Mr.  Deane,"  Tom  leaned  forward  in  his  chair.  "You 
can't  do  anything  material  for  me.  I  hope  you  will  forgive 
what  may  seem  the  impertinence  of  this  visit.  .  .  .  You  know 
what  interest  I  have  in  David.  I  am  eager  to  know  how  he  is 
getting  on:  what  you  think  of  his  prospects.  I  have  long 
wanted  a  few  words  with  you  on  this  subject." 

Mr.  Deane  looked  at  the  young  lawyer  quizzically,  then  ii\ 
assurance. 

"This  won't  get  back  to  my  nephew?"  Tom  waved  his  hand 
in  deprecation.  "You  see,  Mr.  Rennard,  I  am  afraid  of  con 
ceit.  Conceit  spoils  more  careers  than  drink.  My  long  ex 
perience  has  taught  me  that  bright  young  men  are  what  you 
might  call  perishable  goods.  I  encourage  them  only  so  much. 


H2  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

But  in  your  confidence  I  am  glad  to  tell  you  that  I  have 
great  hopes  of  David  Markand." 

Tom  nodded  seriously  and  held  his  silence.  He  knew  this 
type  of  gentleman.  Mr.  Deane  would  presently  go  on.  As  he 
wandered  further  into  the  happy  ways  of  his  own  conceits,  he 
would  be  easier  to  manage. 

"David  has  a  good  mind.  He  can  work.  He  can  apply 
himself.  At  first  he  was  a  little  bewildered.  He  had  a  strange 
habit  of  asking  my  office  manager  a  lot  of  foolish  questions.  I 
was  afraid  his  mind  was  too  much  the  wandering  sort.  But 
that's  over.  That  was  mere  strangeness  here.  I  knew  that. 
I  could  afford  to  smile  at  my  manager's  worry.  You  see,  Mr. 
Rennard,  this  is  a  personal  organization.  It's  a  family.  I 
know  how  my  men  are,  and  the  women  also.  They  don't  get 
into  trouble  in  this  business.  We  satisfy  them:  our  kind  hands 
are  forever  on  them:  no  inducement  to  discontent  or  worry. 
And  it  pays.  It's  a  way  of  keeping  your  machinery  in  good 
repair.  Why,  just  the  other  day,  one  of  our  warehouse  truck 
men.  .  .  ." 

He  forgot  Tom.  He  prattled  on.  Tom  saw  he  would  have 
to  stem  him  back  at  some  convenient  crossing.  The  War  was 
broached. 

"I  think  David  has  some  idea  of  volunteering." 

He  said  this  casually,  and  peered  sharp  at  Mr.  Deane:  saw 
the  shock  on  his  face,  and  was  relieved. 

"Has  he?"  Mr.  Deane's  flow  of  words  belonged  to  a  distant 
mood. 

"Yes.  You  know  David's  generous  instincts."  Mr.  Deane 
sat  abruptly  straight:  he  grasped  a  pencil,  tapped  the  desk 
with  it.  "When  he  reads  the  general  language  of  the  Call  he 
thinks  it  means  him.  I  shouldn't  be  a  bit  surprised  if  he 
tells  you  some  fine  mprning  that  his  business  career  is  ended. 
.  .  .  Well — and  yet  you  know,  Mr.  Deane,  there's  absolutely 
no  such  hurry." 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  113 

"Hurry !"  the  older  man  exploded.  Straightway,  he  held 
himself  down  and  was  still. 

Tom  went  on:  "If  the  War  lasts,  why,  then,  of  course  .  .  ." 

"Of  course,  if  the  War  lasts.     But  it  won't." 

"America  can't  squeeze  all  herself  into  Cuba.  Our  own 
affairs  .  .  ." 

"Precisely." 

A  silence.    Mr.  Deane  was  thinking. 

Tom  jumped  up."Well,  sir,"  he  thrust  out  his  hand,  "I 
hope  I  am  pardoned  for  taking  your  time  in  this  outrageous 
way.  It  naturally  meant  a  great  deal  to  me  to  have  the 
mature  judgment  of  some  one  like  yourself  on  a  boy  whom 
I  consider  my  friend.  I  am  glad  to  find  that  you  confirm  my 
confidence  in  David's  real  business  ability.  I  needed  your 
corroboration.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  Mr.  Deane,  David's 
impetuosity  worries  me  at  times:  that  quality  of  giving  with 
out  thought — without  proportion.  I  was  a  bit  afraid.  You 
have  reassured  me.  Thank  you  very  much."  He  was  gone. 

That  afternoon,  Mr.  Deane  devised  a  plan.  Deane  and 
Company  must  render  its  quota  of  service  to  the  national 
cause.  Deane  and  Company  was  a  single  unit  in  the  zeal 
of  its  officers  and  employes  to  enlist.  Some  restraint  must  be 
placed  upon  such  vast  enthusiasm.  The  country  could  admit 
to  its  armies  only  the  merest  fraction  of  those  champing  with 
the  eagerness  to  serve.  Meantime,  the  land  must  not  be  dis 
located.  Business  must  go  on.  Another  course,  even  if  due 
to  an  heroic  response,  would  virtually  be  to  lend  comfort  to  the 
Enemy.  Wherefore,  in  order  to  save  its  employees  the  em 
barrassment  of  individual  choice,  Deane  and  Company  sug 
gested  that  enlistments  be  confined  to  unmarried  men  between 
the  ages  of  twenty-one  and  thirty.  To  such,  their  positions 
would  be  found  open  on  their  return  from  service.  David 
was  twenty. 


H4  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

This  suggestion  was  printed  and  posted.  David  sought 
out  his  uncle. 

"Uncle,  I  want  to  enlist." 

It  was  his  office;  Mr.  Deane  was  contained  and  strong  with 
all  the  prestige  and  strategy  of  place.  He  did  not  want  his 
nephew  to  enlist.  This  was  to  be  a  hot  and  nasty  war. 
America  had  no  need  of  his  particular  kin  beyond  his  own 
chosen  service  for  him  in  the  House  of  Deane. 

"Of  course,  my  boy,  of  course.  I  don't  dissuade  you.  Al 
though  you  have  seen  the  ruling  of  the  directors — it  leaves  you 
out.  Your  flying  in  the  face  of  that  regulation  might  well 
cause  a  stampede  in  the  office.  But  never  mind,"  Mr.  Deane 
hastened  to  add.  He  was  not  sure  enough  of  that  stampede. 
"Never  mind,  I  am  thinking  it  over.  I  want  you  to  promise 
me  you  will  do  nothing  until  I  have  made  certain  inquiries 
regarding  service.  I  will  let  you  know." 

David  came  again.  Again,  his  uncle  put  him  off.  He  was 
expecting  word  from  Washington  about  commissions.  How 
would  David  like  to  go  as  a  full-fledged  lieutenant? 

"Worth  waiting  a  short  while  for,  eh,  my  boy?  Lieutenant 
Colonel  Roosevelt  has  advised  us  to  wait.  They  are  turning 
ordinary  soldiers  away.  How  would  you  like  to  defeat  your 
own  chances  by  being  in  such  a  childish  hurry?  If  you  really 
want  to  serve,"  he  looked  sharply  at  his  nephew,  "you  must 
wait." 

So  David  waited.  He  was  not  anxious  to  fight.  His  talk 
with  Tom  was  a  strange  reason,  a  feeble  one,  for  turning  into 
a  soldier.  David  knew  dimly  that  his  resolve  had  sprung  con 
trariwise  from  a  host  of  impulses  and  moods  having  no  true 
connection  with  the  War. 

The  public  clamor  overcrowded  the  camps.  Manila  Bay 
was  won.  There  was  small  need  of  men.  David  in  the  pause 
began  to  create  pictures  of  what  battle  meant.  He  did  not 
like  it.  He  was  no  coward.  Simply,  he  thought  death  to  so 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  115 

young  and  fortunate  a  man  must  be  a  pity.  He  was  a  little 
sorry  for  those  he  would  leave  behind,  if  he  did  die.  Nor 
did  he  wish  to  insist  on  losing  a  leg  or  an  eye.  lie  would 
have  to  bear  the  brunt  of  that.  And  it  seemed  a  matter  of 
insisting.  True,  if  he  were  killed,  Lois  might  lose  her  flippant 
bloom.  That  was  an  inducement.  But  there  was  no  hurry 
even  about  hurting  Lois.  He  could  afford  to  postpone  her 
anguish  for  a  brief  while.  He  could  in  the  meantime  enjoy  it 
actually,  by  telling  her  about  it. 

"Lois,"  he  came  to  say  to  her  one  evening,  "I  am  going 
to  enlist  and  go  to  Cuba." 

They  were  sitting  in  their  customary  room.  Nothing  had 
greatly  changed.  If  David's  love  for  Lois  had  become  an 
easier  burden  the  reason  was  that  he  no  longer  drew  so  near 
to  her.  He  did  not  sit  so  close  and  hold  her  hand  and  let  the 
song  of  her  hair  atune  his  nerves.  She  whipped  his  blood 
less:  and  all  of  his  love  was  the  mere  increased  turmoil  of  his 
youth  when  her  youth  flowed  upon  it:  the  added  leap  of  two 
dancing  streams  made  one. 

She  also  had  learned  the  need  of  forbearance.  But  his 
aloofness  spurred  her.  There  was  that  one  time  when  she 
placed  her  cheek  against  his,  nestled  her  sharp  shoulder  in  his 
breast. 

"You  don't  like  your  old  cousin  a  bit  any  more,  do  you?" 

David  held  himself  very  still  and  apart.  Then,  what  bound 
him  to  himself  broke  loose.  What  he  did  was  splintering  from 
his  willed  reserve  so  fast  that  soon  all  of  his  reserve  was  flown 
from  him  in  action.  His  arms  held  her.  All  her  body  meas^ 
ured  its  panting  frailty  against  him.  His  mouth  hurt  her  lips. 
The  rest  of  her  was  molten  and  not  hurt  half  enough. 

Lois  struggled.  For  five  minutes,  she  played  a  painful  game 
of  coolness.  Then,  she  was  composed.  David  dared  not  to 
speak,  Whatever  it  was  that  had  happened  must  be  nothing, 


n6  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

since  Lois  denied  it.  Whatever  it  was  must  be  for  the  last 
time. 

So  now  David  was  childish  to  have  forgotten.  But  it  was 
hard  always  to  remember  against  one's  senses.  The  year  was 
so  intricate  a  thing  for  David.  Hoping  again,  he  said: 

"I  am  going  to  enlist,  and  go  to  Cuba." 

Lois  beaming  and  clapping  her  hands:  "David!  How  won 
derful!  You're  going  to  be  a  soldier?  Oh,  I  am  glad!" 

She  jumped  up,  she  embraced  him,  she  sprang  quickly 
away  before  her  lips  on  his  cheek  had  left  their  taste. 

"When  are  you  goingi?" 

This  dancing,  elate  girl  was  nest  the  prostrate  figure  he  had 
imagined  fondly  for  this  scene.  The  need  of  service  in  the 
tropics  shriveled  in  an  icy  blast.  Lois  accepted  him  as  part 
of  the  parade  they  had  applauded  together  through  the  open 
window?  She  was  quite  willing  to  have  him  offer  his  life — • 
lose  it  perhaps — for  her  cold  delectation.  Well,  she  had  gone 
too  far. 

"None  of  your  business!"  he  stamped  away.  "Leave  me 
alone,  now.  I'm  reading.  .  .  ." 

America  fought  Spain.  Santiago  fell.  Porto  Rico  was 
prostrate.  August  brought  Peace.  David  had  stayed  in  New 
York. 

His  energies  swirled  back  upon  himself.  Their  bloom  to 
ward  Lois  was  chilled:  their  bloom  in  War  and  adventure  had 
been  nipped.  For  the  rest  of  the  year,  he  was  in  silent  and 
hidden  turmoil. 

Young  love  could  not  live  with  comfort  upon  Lois.  Com 
fort — the  comfort  of  hot  pleasure  or  hot  pain — was  what  it 
craved.  David  withdrew  fast.  He  had  high-sounding  names 
lor  the  faults  he  found  in  his  cousin.  She  was  heartless,  selfish, 
cold.  She  bruised  his  tenderness  and  misprized  his  service. 
The  truth  was  she  offended  his  pride.  She  had  shown  that 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  117 

she  could  deny  herself  the  delight  of  his  kisses:  that  she 
could  survive  even  the  picture  of  his  death.  Looking  upon 
Lois  for  himself,  the  Narcissus  of  David's  love  found  a  shrunk 
en  ego.  It  was  a  mere  question  of  time  when  he  would  accept 
this  failure  and  look  elsewhere. 

But  before  he  could  redispose  his  forces  for  their  new- 
excursion  David  must  gather  them  in. 

He  returned  to  himself  as  a  traveler  comes  home.  Like 
the  traveler  he  found  how  the  magic  of  change  and  of  ad 
venture  worked  not  only  upon  the  highway.  Once  more  in 
the  familiar  place  whence  he  had  gone,  he  found  it  strange  and 
full  of  undiscovered  things. 

He  found  that  he  was  lonely:  he  found  that  he  was  afraid. 
He  found  that  for  these  reasons  he  wished  to  leave  the  Deanes: 
that  they  made  him  lonely  and  that  they  made  him  fear.  He 
had  been  sweetly  at  home  in  himself:  sweetly  one  with  what 
his  mother  had  left  him.  Since  his  coming  to  New  York,  this 
place  where  his  heart  dwelt  was  empty.  His  heart  had  not 
even  been  abroad  with  him,  it  had  been  away.  Without  his 
heart,  he  had  gone  to  work,  worked  hard;  lived  with  the  family 
of  his  uncle  and  been  glad;  come  so  to  Lois  and  come  to 
love  her.  A  strange  ghost  of  David. 

The  year  ripened  and  softened  into  summer — the  season  of 
relaxation,  the  season  of  decision  and  creation.  David  grew 
aware  of  a  rolling  fullness  outside  him,  and  of  an  emptiness 
within. 

He  wanted  to  be  himself.  He  felt  all  manner  of  hands  upon 
him,  save  his  own.  Gentle  hands:  good  hands.  Not  his. 

The  idea  of  solitude,  came  and  grew:  it  filled  him.  He  did 
not  know,  he  felt — what  solitude  would  bring  him.  Had  he 
not  somehow  known  it,  after  all?  He  would  go  thinking  of 
his  mother.  Was  that  not  solitude?  Perhaps  to  be  alone 
would  be  to  find  her.  To  find  her,  he  knew,  would  be  to  be 
alone  no  more.  Dim  inexorable  forces  these,  which  he  could 


n8  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

not  resist  the  more  fatefully  since  he  could  not  understand. 

David  was  an  animal  that  sought  the  healing  of  stillness. 
Who  shall  say  how  close  his  longing  was  to  the  creeping  away 
of  the  brute?  Perhaps  the  therapy  of  silence  is  no  other  than 
this  return  of  longing  to  the  source  of  longing:  to  union  with 
the  limitless  well  of  life  in  which  lies  our  world  like  a  fleck 
in  a  limitless  cup.  In  the  philosopher  seeking  the  Word,  in 
the  dumb  creature  seeking  rest  from  his  hurt  the  lure  is  one: 
the  way  back  sure  since  it  is  the  retracing  of  steps  to  the 
Beginning. 

The  sage  and  the  brute  only  can  go  the  way  of  spiritual 
homing  without  the  folly  of  explanations:  they  are  naked  and 
submissive  before  the  primordial  voice.  David,  like  most 
humans,  was  somewhat  between  these  two.  He  was  full  of 
reasons. 

He  could  say:  it  is  not  good  for  me  to  see  so  much  of  Lois. 
He  could  say:  it.is  not  right  to  impose  further  on  the  Deanes. 
After  all,  go  back  a  year  and  he  had  not  seen  them:  they 
had  not  bothered — or  been  bothered — with  him.  Let  him 
blaze  his  own  trail.  ...  If  he  wished  to  be  free  to  live  his 
own  life,  was  that  not  natural  also?  He  had  his  own  key 
at  the  Deanes.  But  there  was  a  certain  unavoidable  restraint. 
Suppose  he  had  wanted  some  night  to  stay  out  till  mom- 
ing?  This  had  never  been.  It  might.  He  was  approach 
ing  twenty-one!  What  would  his  aunt  say?  What  would 
Muriel  and  Lois  think?  Manhood  needs  room.  It  was  awk 
ward  to  bring  friends  to  the  big  house:  he  seldom  did  so. 
What  if,  some  day,  he  should  want  to  .bring  a  girl — bring  her 
somewheres?  A  thrilling  reason,  this!  To  have  a  place  that 
was  his,  where  he  could  be  with  a  girl!  The  hospitable  house 
of  the  Deanes  was  not  hospitable  to  such  conceptions.  In 
the  air  of  these  daughters,  even  the  thought  of  adventure 
seemed  strained.  The  presence  of  Muriel  and  Lois  fretted  his 
nerves:  spiced  them:  taunted  them.  But  if  their  lives,  their 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  119 

thoughts,  the  gay  deckings  of  their  bodies  called  forth  sex, 
also  they  stifled  it.  David  wondered  if  it  would  be  always 
so,  even  when  they  were  married.  For  a  reason  he  could 
not  name  he  decided  he  would  not  want  to  be  a  husband  to 
Lois.  There  was  a  curious  contradiction  in  these  girls:  some 
thing  counterfeit;  perhaps  something  thwarted.  David  once 
saw  a  great  red  flower — Muriel's — in  a  vase  on  her  table. 
Thinking  of  other  things,  he  smelt  it:  his  mind  went  rushing 
toward  it,  finding  it  odorless.  He  crushed  it.  He  had  never 
felt  the  least  impulse  to  crush  a  fragrant  flower.  Muriel  and 
Lois  were  roses,  but  they  had  no  perfume.  He  thought,  if  he 
held  such  a  lover,  he  should  want  to  crumple  her.  It  might 
mysteriously  be  a  way  of  having  satisfaction — of  having  a 
substitute  for  satisfaction.  Living  in  the  house  with  Muriel 
and  Lois,  he  found  they  sharpened  his  senses,  yet  blunted 
his  will:  heightened  his  needs,  yet  dwarfed  his  power  to  get 
them.  And  David  knew  it  was  Muriel  and  Lois  who  filled 
this  house  of  the  Deanes.  It  was  the  house  of  Muriel  and 
Lois:  not  the  house  of  his  uncle  and  aunt.  Why  should  he 
keep  on  living  with  two  exacerbating  cousins?  .  .  . 

There  were  reasons  aplenty.  But  this  fading  day  was  a 
day  that  drifted  beyond  the  world  of  reasons.  He  was  alone. 

He  had  been  tired,  he  had  managed  to  leave  the  office  early, 
to  be  alone.  He  sat  there,  gazing  away  at  the  hot  park  with 
eyes  that  were  truly  looking  inward. 

Something  stirred  in  him.  Not  the  movement  of  unrest: 
rather  a  deep  vibration  as  when  coals  kindle:  the  quickening 
from  inert  heat  to  glow. 

What  was  he?  What  was  he  doing?  A  fear  in  this  that 
was  somehow  sweet.  For  it  impelled  him  to  a  sweet  direc 
tion.  He  was  nothing:  what  he  did,  mattered  not  at  all. 
What  of  it?  He  was  going  to  die  some  day,  and  that  was 
sure.  He  had  a  haven  there:  and  also  he  had  a  haven  in  the 
past.  Perhaps  he  should  have  died  when  his  mother  died? 


120  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

How  he  loved  her  now!  With  what  new  fragrance!  Let  him 
fear,  and  be  cold.  He  had  a  way  in  his  real  life  from  these. 
Some  day  he  would  die  and  see  his  mother.  This  dwelling 
back,  this  yearning  forward  were  one.  .  .  . 

She  had  eyes  too  knowing  ever  to  need  to  look.  Eyes  that 
felt  him.  He  sat  there  holding  the  skein  of  yarn  that  her 
long  soft  hands  unraveled:  silently.  Her  arms  moved  in 
rhythm:  and  her  body:  and  her  mouth,  that  was  smiling.  He 
was  caught  up,  they  dwelt  together  in  a  song  whose  cadence 
her  busy  hands  were  marking.  The  yarn  that  went  from  his 
own  hands  to  hers,  it  bound  them:  it  was  not  yarn  at  all: 
it  was  red.  Sweetly,  unendingly  the  music  went  that  en 
closed  them.  Sweet,  unending  were  the  changes  of  its  mood. 
The  cord  no  longer  flowed  from  him  to  her.  Within  it  was 
life  running  from  her  heart  to  her  dear  hands:  and  thence 
to  his  and  to  his  thirsting  heart.  His  mother  fed  him,  always 
his  mother  smiled  and  he  could  see  the  breathing  of  her  breast. 
She  smiled,  her  breast  roi£;  her  breast  rose  and  touched 
him.  The  touch  was  naked:  naked  mother-flesh  to  his  lips. 

He  was  an  open  mouth,  drinking  the  touch  of  her  breast: 
drinking  his  mother.  Swinging  .  .  .  rocking  .  .  .  swooning 
.  .  .  drinking  his  mother. 

Footsteps  in  the  hall.  David  lurched  from  his  revery. 
Shreds  of  it  clung  to  him  spinning  back  to  earth:  he  was  still 
red  and  moist  with  it. 

What  did  it  matter  if  he  was  lonely?  He  would  find  loves. 
He  was  young  and  strong,  his  hands  were  not  idle.  The 
city  embosomed  him.  His  hands  were  not  idle,  seeking. 

A  knock  at  the  door.  There  was  comfort  every  way. 
Backward,  forward:  comfort  of  rest,  comfort  of  adventure. 

"Come  in,"  he  said.  He  was  surprised  at  the  laughter  in 
his  voice. 

Tom  and  Cornelia:   a  little  hushed  looking  about,  taking 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  121 

in  his  new  walls  and  roof.  He  was  on  them,  unbridled,  pour 
ing. 

"Big  enough  to  hold  my  bones  as  I  sleep.  .  .  .  Don't  look 
so  shocked.  Are  you  going  to  disown  me?" 

His  words  poured  fast.  Slowly,  behind  his  words,  he 
seemed  to  face  them.  ...  He  was  leaving  the  world  of  his 
family,  the  cloying  and  sweet  drag  of  it.  Here  was  the  com 
ing.  These  friends:  tissues  of  thought  and  passion  that  were 
not  his!  What  was  his  measure,  what  did  he  look  like  here? 
Through  the  door  had  come  with  them  the  City.  Chaos  of 
steel  and  stone  in  which  swung  numberless  worlds  of  flesh, 
lactaries  of  blood.  Sudden  he  was  in  it!  He  heard  its  throb 
in  his  room,  he  felt  its  Hand,  weave  of  a  million  separate 
forces,  loom  on  him,  fall  on  him,  test  him.  .  .  .  His  voice  in 
a  maze  of  roars,  his  eyes  in  a  maze  of  suns.  Transfiguration. 
Silence  out  of  the  roaring  worlds.  His  own  voice  unafraid. 

They  listened  to  him. 

"Let's  enjoy  ourselves  to-night.  Let's  eat  on  Broadway 
and  go  to  a  theater.  My  treat.  ...  I  insist!  Look,  I'm 
rich!"  He  took  a  silver  dollar,  he  tossed  it  through  the 
window.  "I'm  ready.  Come." 

He  was  throbbing.  He  took  Cornelia,  and  swung  her  waist 
and  kissed  her. 

"Dear  sweet  Cornelia,"  he  laughed.  "I  swear  I've  not 
been  drinking  a  drop.  .  .  .  It's  you!  .  .  .  It's  you  made  me 
drunk.  Don't  you  believe  it?  I  swear  it." 

She  was  glowing  with  pleasure.  After  all,  David  seemed 
part  her  boy.  Let  him  carry  on.  And  he,  pacing  about  the 
room. 

"I  swear  it.  I  swear  it  is  Cornelia.  ...  By  my "  He 

stopped.  He  was  sober. 

David  was  sober.  Looking  with  a  new-discovered  tender 
ness  at  Cornelia. 


122  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

"Excuse  me,"  he  blushed:  he  sank  into  a  chair.  Cornelia's 
cool  hand  was  on  his  brow. 

"Nonsense,  David.  We're  all  in  the  same  mood  for  fun. 
Thank  you  for  that.  Let's  chat  a  moment,  and  then  we'll 
go." 

She  wanted  him  to  rest.  He  was  perspiring.  It  was  just 
the  sort  of  sudden  weather  to  catch  cold  in. 

Tom  lighted  a  cigarette.  He  saw  Cornelia  smoothing 
David's  hair.  He  saw  David,  unknowing,  unseeing,  smile 
into  his  sister's  face,  relax  to  her  sweetness.  He  did  not 
like  this.  He  looked  hard  at  them,  puffing  his  cigarette. 
Until  his  gaze  made  them  self-conscious;  made  Cornelia  take 
away  her  hand:  made  David  look  at  him.  This  was  what 
he  wanted.  .  .  . 


VI 


DEEPLY  the  luminous  complex  stir  that  came  to  him 
as  he  stood  straining  in  the  hall  and  gave  up  his  hat 
and  gave  up  his  coat  to  the  silent  butler,  that  came 
through  barring  tapestries  of  blue  upon  mist  of  laughter  and 
words,  of  feminine  silks  and  smoke,  of  tinkle  of  frail  china, 
made  Tom  afraid.  He  parted  the  swerving  draperies  as  one 
cuts  a  wave,  plunging  into  a  sea.  At  once  he  was  bound 
with  this  new  terse  element. 

Fragments  of  Ohio  still  clung  to  him.  He  would  have 
reeled  in  this  dazzlement  had  there  been  space.  But  the 
room's  brittle  density  upheld  him,  pushed  him  slowly  in  the 
sense  of  its  scarce  visible  grain.  Tom  was  submerged  smiling. 

Already  a  force  worked  in  him,  digesting  this  dense  life, 
making  it  a  function  of  his  own,  making  its  subtle  fumes  a 
stimulant  for  the  force  making  it  a  function.  Tom's  mind 
groped,  as  he  walked  lightly,  for  an  old-time  hurt.  .  .  .  He 
had  been  badly  cut  in  the  wrist  by  a  fall  through  a  rocky 
road.  For  a  month  his  cut  wrist  was  bound  close.  When 
the  bandage  was  off  and  the  air  let  in,  his  wrist  had  seemed 
to  possess  a  power  of  flight  out  of  all  proportion  with  hig 
other  wrist,  with  the  remainder  of  his  body.  This  had  made 
for  dissonance.  It  was  as  if  only  by  good  attention  he  held 
the  soaring  wrist  in  place.  So  now,  his  suddenly  liberated 
will,  as  compared  to  all  his  body.  Tom  relaxed  on  the  balls 
of  his  feet  and  had  the  adroitness  to  look  about  him.  Hia 
field,  this.  In  his  two  prematurely  aged  hands  could  he  not 
toss  this  world?  He  felt  power,  he  felt  grace.  His  eye3 
gleamed.  He  laughed.  Words,  polished  and  caparisoned, 

123 


124  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

flew  from  his  mouth  as  if  the  Design  fitting  them  to  him 
were  absolute,  were  mystic.  Tom's  body  was  taut  now. 
His  mind  had  gathered  in  this  reeling  quality.  But  his  body 
held  to  his  will,  as  an  artist  sways  to  his  violin.  Meantime, 
still,  the  brittle  density  along  whose  imperceptible  grain  Tom 
flowed.  Ladies  with  subtle  ways  of  calling  attention  to  their 
bosoms  by  suppressing  them:  their  arms  came  angularly 
forth  from  the  compressed  and  mysterious  domain  like  spouts 
of  energy — like  escapes  of  self.  So  their  arms,  so  their  voices. 
At  arm's  end  a  tea-cup:  at  voice's  end  a  word.  Neither  im 
portant.  Sip  tea,  sip  words.  But  the  attention  was  en 
grossed  in  a  deeper  quaffing.  These  spouting  shreds  of  self 
could  be  joined,  could  create  a  circuit,  could  release  a  cur 
rent  from  heart  to  heart,  from  loin  to  loin.  Tom  felt  this. 
He  felt  the  suffused  emotion  of  this  splintering  welter.  He 
saw  in  the  words,  in  the  arms  of  ladies,  sparks  of  invitation, 
fuses  corruscating  back  to  mute  stores  of  combustible  sen 
sation.  All  of  the  afternoon  seemed  a  disguisement,  a  limit 
less  deferring  of  the  reality  of  all  the  wills  there  massed.  Tom 
wondered  by  what  constant  guard  the  fuses  never  burned  to 
their  full  length,  the  explosives  never  went  off:  how  they 
kept  sheathed  from  this  glitter  of  temptation.  He  perceived 
that  the  flames  were  cold  and  lightless.  He  perceived  that 
the  fires  shot  off  into  air:  were  free  of  substance:  were  in 
some  careful  way  remote  from  the  pent  inflammables  in  every 
breast.  And  Tom  had  suddenly  the  vision  of  fireworks,  blaz 
ing  in  a  night  above  a  score  of  hands  that  flashed  white 
and  calm  in  the  broken  darkness.  Men  and  women  display 
ing  fire  only  outside  themselves.  Perhaps  at  the  most,  some 
inner  rim  of  char. 

He  saw  the  goal  of  the  grain-ward  course  he  had  been 
flowing.  There  was  the  hostess. 

Her  vibrancy  was  freer.  She  had  space  about  her.  In 
her  true  light  at  last,  a  certain  glow  that  was  warm,  since 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  125; 

1 

this  energy  was  not,  as  in  the  others,  so  instantly  splintered 
off  by  the  packed  impingement.  She  was  insulated  but  Tom 
could  touch  her.  Pier  glow  came  forth:  he  found  a  glow  of 
his  own.  He  liked  this  Mrs.  Laura  Duffield. 

He  had  the  sense  of  her  subduedness  as  of  a  charm  weighty 
enough  to  sink  in  this  pandemonium  of  flicker.  He  bowed 
to  pick  it  up. 

"I  have  fought  my  way  through  to  you,  Mrs.  Duffield. 
Congratulate  me." 

She  held  back  her  head;  he  saw  the  fading  of  her  golden 
hair,  the  age  of  her  throat,  the  indomitable  blue  of  her  eyes. 

"This  must  be  Mr.  Rennard!" 

She  threw  back  her  head  still  further,  as  if  to  send  her 
laughter  upward,  and,  boyishly,  thrust  out  her  hand.  Taking 
it,  Tom  added  to  his  vision  the  full  ripe  crowding  of  her 
breast — no  longer  firm  to  stand  up  alone — and  the  delicacy 
of  her  wrist. 

She  shunted  him  off  almost  at  once:  introducing  him  here 
and  there,  squandering  the  charm  of  her  attention  as  one 
tosses  showers  of  coin  out  of  reach.  He  had  no  more  of  her. 

But  as  Tom,  having  reached  this  goal  of  his  progression, 
was  now  silted  aimlessly  away  in  wide,  flat  spurts  of  move 
ment,  he  observed  the  crowd  thrust  together,  into  a  unit,  into 
a  reason.  It  was  so  he  carried  it  with  him  back  into  the  hall, 
into  the  street.  The  crowd's  form  turned  crass  as  he  seemed 
to  understand  the  will  that  had  brought  it  into  being.  ...  It 
was  her  house:  she  had  created  this  turmoil.  Why?  Why, 
each  Wednesday  afternoon, — to  make  no  mention  of  doubtless 
other  times, — did  this  glowing  woman  need  to  congregate 
such  spill  of  life,  pack  it  into  her  rooms,  feed  it,  coax  it  to 
place  its  stamp  upon  her?  What  joy  could  there  be  in  what 
must  largely  stultify  her  individual  world?  Tom  pondered. 
Was  this  greedy  crowd  somehow  a  vessel  in  which*  Mrs. 
Duffield  poured  herself?  That  it  might  carry  her  off?  leave 


126  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

in  the  stir  of  her  curtains,  in  the  perfumed  mist  on  her 
bibelots,  a  substitute  for  her  own  marks  which  should  have 
quickened  these?  And  if  so,  why? 

Tom's  casual  yet  forever  determined  mind  associated  these 
impressions  widely  until  he  knew  that  such  habits  were  a 
deep  part  of  the  City's  nature.  He  groped  with  his  light. 

"If  I  understand  her,  I  hold  her: — and  all  she  holds.  I'll 
go  again.  I'll  see  that  this  promiscuous  call  makes  for  a 
more  intimate  occasion." 

The  occasion  came.  But  already  Tom  had  learned  to  like 
the  gatherings  he  was  pleased  to  call  promiscuous.  Their 
fumes  curled  into  his  nerves,  made  them  willing  for  more. 
A  hint  of  his  new  appetite  in  his  condemnation  to  Cornelia. 

"Business,  my  dear  Sis:  Business.  And  of  the  lowest  de 
gree  of  horridness." 

"I  can  see  where  it  must  help  your  connections." 

"Let  us  hope  so!  Lord!"  Tom  paced  up  and  down  be 
fore  Cornelia's  latest  cast.  "If  I  don't  get  something  out  of 
these  parties  I  shall  have  bartered  my  soul  for  nothing.  .  .  . 
Satan  will  have  cheated  me." 

"He  never  does,"  answered  Cornelia. 

Tom  looked  up  as  if  stung. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Oh,  nothing  extraordinary,  Tom.  I  am  convinced  that 
folks  who  strike  a  bargain  with  the  Devil  do  so,  not  for 
specific  gain,  but  because  they  like  his  company." 

Tom  glowed  at  her  with  a  cold  smile  of  admiration. 

"Splendid!   .  .  .  What  does  it  mean?" 

Cornelia's  sharp  shoulders  shrugged. 

"I  suppose  I  like  Mrs.  Duffield's  parties?" 

"I  am  sure  of  it,"  she  snapped.  Then,  quietly,  like  a 
mother  to  her  son,  "So  stop  protesting,  like  a  dear  man. 
Yes?" 

It  was  true.    Tom  knew  it,  however,  as  well  as  his  wise 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  127 

sister.  She  understood  with  a  great  clarity  only  a  part  ol 
Tom.  She  did  not  know  how,  in  these  protestations,  he 
pleaded  against  himself,  not  with  her.  There  was  a  depth 
in  Tom  more  cold  to  these  mundane  blandishments  than  the 
surface  was  warm  to  them.  Tom's  conflict  was  deeper  than 
the  desire  to  conceal  from  himself  and  from  his  sister  this 
worldliness  which  guided  him  about.  It  was  a  conflict  rooted 
in  his  nature.  There  was  a  part  of  Tom  that  despised  his 
conduct,  hated  his  success,  rose  forever  like  a  gaunt,  uninvited 
guest  to  spoil  his  banquet.  A  ghost  in  Tom  that  was  very 
much  alive.  .  .  . 

It  was  born  perhaps  near  the  hour  of  Tom's  birth  in 
Dahlton.  A  very  looming  part  of  the  world  of  Tom  was 
this  father  whom  his  mother  loved.  His  father  was  there. 
He  needed  to  be  taken.  He  needed  to  be  taken  as  his  mother 
took  him.  At  the  beginning,  the  bar  between  the  mother  and 
her  child  has  no  reality  to  the  child.  Mother  and  child  are 
one  to  the  child's  rapt  omniscience.  The  tall,  gray-faced 
man  had  nervous  hard  hands  which  were  strong.  Often  his 
hands  viced  the  woman's  arms  till  she  screamed:  they  screwed 
her  to  a  chair  while  his  words  lashed  her:  they  turned  her 
about  to  the  door  she  was  ordered  to  pass  through.  Then,  in 
that  dawn  of  the  world,  those  hands  left  the  mother  who  was 
cowed;  they  took  the  passionate  sprawling  flesh  of  Tom  and 
thrust  him  to  his  crib,  they  turned  him  about  so  that  Tom's 
eyes  gazed  at  a  blank  wall  whose  denial  of  sight  was  terror. 

Mrs.  Rennard  loved  Tom's  father.  Her  senses  had  mostly 
pain  of  him,  but  passion  also.  Since  her  senses  loved  him, 
they  needed  to  love  what  her  husband  gave  them.  Tom, 
feeling  in  these  dim  passionate  days  the  aching  presence  of 
his  father  upon  his  world — upon  his  mother  and  upon  him 
self — the  visitation  of  his  cruelty  upon  them — took  him  as 
did  his  mother.  He  shared  his  mother's  sensuous  satisfac 
tion  in  abject  pain.  Like  her  he  made  joy  of  anguish: 


128  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

like  her,  molded  himself  to  love  and  to  depend  upon  this  man 
as  the  pain-giver,  since  such  was  the  form  of  his  love,  such 
the  burden  of  his  support.  Mrs.  Rennard  loved  her  husband, 
her  senses  took  him.  Tom  looked  upon  his  father  with  his 
mother's  senses. 

His  mother  died.  Curtin  Rennard  went  to  the  child.  He 
lifted  him  in  his  arms. 

"Thomas,"  he  said,  "you  are  to  be  a  motherless  child. 
Your  mother  is  dead.  I  want  you  to  pray  with  me  to  God — 
to  thank  Him  for  the  cruel  thing  that  He  has  brought 
upon  us." 

Tom  repeated  his  father's  words  as  his  father  spoke  them. 
"My  mother  is  gone,  I  bless  You  and  thank  You,  God.  She 
is  gone,  and  I  am  alone  without  a  mother.  God,  I  thank 
You.  She  is  gone  to  join  the  Chosen  in  Your  presence. 
God,  I  thank  You.  My  mother  is  gone — perhaps — to  be 
damned  in  Hell.  God,  I  bless  You  and  thank  You." 

Curtin  Rennard  took  the  child  high  in  his  arms:  gazed  into 
his  frightened  eyes:  seemed  pleased  thereat,  for  he  embraced 
him.  Tom  was  happy  then.  He  did  not  miss  his  mother. 

He  never  missed  her.  All  his  will  was  fixed  on  the  pain- 
dealing,  passionate  parent.  His  rival — his  rival-self — his 
mother  was  no  more  there.  He  was  more  free  to  love,  to 
suffer,  to  rebel,  now  that  the  great  sick  lover,  the  great  suf 
ferer,  the  unsucceeding  rebel  with  her  wide  skirts  and  her 
clear  wan  forehead  was  gone  from  their  world. 

A  deep  and  subtle  relationship  grew  between  the  tremorous 
child  and  the  thwarting,  thwarted,  powerful  man,  his  father. 

A  relationship  unmeasured  and  un-named  in  the  peripheral 
vicissitudes  of  their  ages  and  their  minds.  An  eye  unchecked 
by  surfaces  and  the  color  of  habit,  drawn  to  the  womb  of 
life,  must  have  found  Tom's  love  for  his  father  in  those  days 
deeply  atune  with  the  love  of  his  father's  wife  who  was  dead: 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  129 

must  have  seen  the  bereaved  love  of  Curtin  Rennard  astir 
for  a  new  replenishment  in  all  his  children. 

So  deep  a  dream  could  not  grow  unchallenged  in  one  as 
quick  with  reality  as  Tom.  He  rebelled.  His  nature  muni 
tioned  itself  for  rebellion. 

There  was  Cornelia.  She  saved  herself  from  her  father  by 
making  into  an  ideal  her  dim  devotion  to  her  mother.  Tom 
took  her  as  ally.  Cornelia  imaged  her  saving  devotion  in 
maternal  deeds,  she  imaged  it  in  clay.  Her  mother  was  sanc 
tuary  from  the  common  danger.  In  Tom  grew  great  love  for 
his  protecting  sister:  above  all  tense  self-abandonment  to  his 
father's  greatest  rival,  the  real  world.  Here  lay  freedom  for 
Tom!  His  blood  knew  that  the  hidden  love  must  scorch 
and  shrivel  in  the  sun.  He  courted  the  sun.  He  was  in 
perpetual  revolt  against  his  father's  hold  on  his  emotions: 
against  his  father's  closeted  ideals:  against  the  source  of  his 
father's  hold,  his  own  deep  identity  with  his  mother. 

Hence,  Tom's  distrust  of  women,  his  devotion  to  Cornelia, 
the  frenzied  scatter  of  his  forces  in  objective  life.  During 
Tom's  boyhood,  he  was  almost  a  woman  in  his  attitude  to 
ward  women:  in  each  of  them  he  fought  his  mother,  fought 
her  betrayal  of  him — as  of  herself — to  his  dominant  father. 
His  love  of  Cornelia  was  at  once  a  way-station  for  his  self- 
freeing  will  and  a  substitute  for  the  parental  yokes  from 
which  he  needed  freedom. 

Directly  through  her,  indirectly  against  his  father,  Tom 
grew  in  love  with  imagery,  with  color,  with  the  Symbol — the 
artist  in  Tom  grew.  From  his  passionate  seeking  of  the 
outer  world,  there  rose  his  power  of  success  in  society  and 
in  law.  For  the  world  loves  the  lavish  spender  of  himself: 
it  will  run  to  the  largess  of  his  ruin  as  wolves  to  their  meat. 

Yet  as  Tom  saw  his  practice  swell,  saw  the  doors  behind 
which  stood  butlers  open  to  him,  the  silent  music  of  his  blood 
went  on.  All  these  talents  and  emotions  were  reactions.  Be- 


130  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

hind  them  stood  the  Image  of  a  man — hating  art,  hating 
social  intercourse,  hating  life, — of  a  man  beckoning  Torn  back 
to  an  ecstatic,  fabular  peace.  For  that  man's  hatreds  also 
were  reactions  .  .  .  behind  them  .  .  . 

All  that  ancient  lure  was  now  resistance  to  the  life  Tom 
flung  himself  upon,  even  as  all  this  life  was  his  resistance  to 
that  hidden  lure.  He  would  consecrate  his  talent,  he  would 
build  him  his  church,  Success.  But  his  mind  ran  against  it, 
weakened  the  rock  on  which  he  builded.  Cornelia  was  know 
ing.  Here  were  depths  beyond  her  vision.  She  saw  chiefly 
the  young  man  so  soaked  in  his  Puritan  upbringing  that  he 
was  loath  to  face  the  joys  he  had  of  his  worldly  undertak 
ings:  a  very  usual  hypocrisy  and  of  no  importance,  but  one 
she  hated  since  she  was  full  of  it  also. 

"I  don't  see,"  she  said,  "why  you  should  be  ashamed  of 
enjoying  Mrs.  Duffield's  parties.  Heaven  knows  we  had 
lonely  enough  years,  here,  first." 

"You  go  with  artists — with  intelligent  people.  You  have 
too  much  kindness  to  imagine  how  dull  the  rich  and  the 
successful  are." 

"Nonsense!  Their  success  speaks  continual  wise  words. 
Their  gold  is  brilliant." 

So  they  swayed  back  and  forth,  these  two.  They  were 
equals.  They  had  never  become  rivals — before  David. 

Laura  Duffield  invited  her  new  friend  to  dine. 

"Come  early,"  she  said,  "I  want  you  to  meet  my  son,  be 
fore  he  goes  to  his  usual  party." 

He  entered  the  drawing-room:  a  young  girl  and  a  young 
man  were  there. 

"Farge  and  Marcia,  this  is  Mr.  Rennard." 

Their  polite  greeting  was  sauced  in  an  expectant  languor 
and  a  very  harmless  resentment.  It  was  as  if  they  were  re 
signed  to  a  bad  habit  of  their  mother. 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  131 

Marcia,  looking  at  Tom's  trimly  rhythmic  body,  thought: 
"It  is  lucky  Mamma  is  getting  a  divorce  and  must  behave." 

Farge  was  too  dull  to  syllogize  but  he  twinged  with  a  sort 
of  envy  and  almost  pondered  out:  "My  friends  are  not  freak 
ish  enough  for  Ma." 

Tom  was  seated  and  Mrs.  Duffield  was  already  in  full  talk. 

He  found  it  hard,  listening  to  her,  to  take  in  these  two. 
As  she  talked,  she  insisted  on  holding  his  eyes.  It  was  as 
if  she  talked  for  no  greater  purpose.  Marcia  and  Farge  sat 
on  a  lounge  just  outside  his  range.  They  were  looking  at 
him.  Farge  smoked  a  cigarette;  he  had  offered  none  to  Tom. 
Marcia  leaned  far  back,  her  legs  were  outstretched  straight; 
she  threw  one  ankle  over  the  other.  Mrs.  Duffield  made  good 
the  deficiency  of  her  son.  She  never  smoked,  but  she  had 
full  provisions  for  her  friends.  Tom  felt  how  from  ankle  to 
neck  this  girl  was  firm  and  spare  and  full  of  a  voluptuous 
relaxation.  Only  her  eyes  were  taut,  perhaps  from  poising 
him.  She  did  not  listen  to  her  mother's  words.  She  hummed 
a  tune  very  faintly:  her  upward  foot  marked  time. 

She  got  up.  She  jerked  her  shoulders,  as  if  the  gown  that 
clung  to  them  were  an  obtrusion.  Perhaps  the  obtrusion  was 
elsewhere  in  the  room.  "It  must  be  late,  Farge?" 

The  boy  gave  a  limp  hand:  Marcia  nodded  sharply.  Tom 
felt  that  Farge  had  not  wanted  to  shake  hands,  and  that 
Marcia  would  not  have  minded.  He  noticed  that  this  girl 
was  built  very  like  a  boy:  and  that  Farge  with  his  pudgy 
rondured  body  and  pink  cheeks  was  rather  like  a  girl.  Alone 
with  Mrs.  Duffield  he  found  that  he  had  been  attracted  by  her 
daughter. 

He  was  not  sorry.  This  charm  upon  him  made  it  easier 
to  be  charming.  He  told  an  anecdote  of  that  day  in  court: 
he  had  been  in  court  seventeen  days  before,  but  instinct  made 
him  say  "to-day."  Talking,  it  came  to  him  how  far  more 
naive  and  fresh  this  oldening,  troubled  mother  was  than  her 


I32  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

young  daughter.  Tom  did  not  understand  this.  He  felt  it 
would  not  have  been  safe  to  tell  white  lies  to  Marcia.  He 
wondered  why  the  strange  weariness  and  slackness  of  the 
girl  came  to  him  as  pleasure. 

"Why,  Mrs.  Duffield,  is  the  younger  generation  prema 
turely  old?" 

She  laughed  with  her  liquid  laughter.  She  did  not  guess 
beneath  his  question. 

"Why?  Do  you  mean  yourself?  You  are  not  prema 
turely  old.  Oh,  I  am  sure  not.  You  are  mature.  You  have 
been  forced  so  early  to  play  a  man's  part  in  the  world." 

"That  can't  be  it.  I  see  it  most  in  young  folk  that  do 
not  work  at  all." 

"Well,  not  working  at  all  is  the  part  of  the  very  old." 

"I  am  still  not  satisfied.  I  almost  think  that  the  shrewd 
parents  of  Competitive  America  have  learned  to  palm  off  their 
own  weariness  on  their  children.  Just  like  them  it  would  be: 
a  trick  of  the  trade." 

"It  is  nothing  but  sophistication,  dear  Mr.  Rennard.  We 
old  folks  have  the  naivete  of  savages.  Our  children  are 
civilized.  That  is  all."  She  examined  him.  "Does  this 
weariness  repel  you?" 

Tom  watched  sharply  without  heightening  the  look  of  his 
eyes.  She  had  no  idea  whence  had  come  his  thoughts. 

"No,"  he  ventured.  "That  is  proof,  I  suppose,  that  I  am 
touched  myself?  It  attracts  me  rather.  Of  course,  not 
weariness  alone." 

Mrs.  Duffield  was  weary:  endlessly  weary.  Often  she  flung 
herself  to  bed  with  a  horror  of  the  needs  of  her  toilet.  Often 
she  awoke  in  the  morning  with  the  demands  of  getting  up  a 
mountain  in  her  path.  She  took  Tom's  words  to  herself. 
She  would  not  have  to  grimace  her  weariness  away.  It  would 
be  pleasure  to  be  with  him. 

Soon  they  were  friends.    When  he  came  in  to  her,  she 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  133 

thrust  out  an  arm  in  greeting,  and  did  not  budge  from  her  lounge. 

"Make  yourself  nice  and  at  home;  or  I'll  have  to  get  up 
and  do  it  for  you.  I'm  so  comfy!" 

Her  weariness  went  before  her  admission  of  it  with  him. 
He  stood  over  her;  she  was  aware  that  his  eyes  could  see 
within  the  negligent  folds  of  her  flimsy  housegown.  What 
did  it  matter?  They  were  friends.  Once  she  said: 

"Make  believe  this  is  an  evening  dress.  Then  the  decollete 
won't  shock  you." 

"Then  also,  it  won't  interest  me,"  said  Tom. 

She  needed  to  know  everything  about  him:  that  she  might 
help  him. 

"Fve  made  up  my  mind  on  that!" 

She  told  him  of  herself  more  and  more:  more  and  more 
easily.  She  told  herself  that  she  could  not  otherwise  gain  his 
confidence:  and  she  needed  that  really  to  help  him,  really 
to  be  "friends."  In  truth  she  craved  his  help,  she  was  glad 
to  purchase  it  with  whatever  aid  her  place  and  her  connec 
tions  might  afford. 

"It  is  hard  to  speak  of  such  things,"  she  said,  half  sitting 
up  on  her  lounge,  with  a  bare  arm  falling  straight  toward 
the  floor.  At  once  it  was  easy.  The  ease  of  her  lying  there 
before  him  and  the  glow  of  his  eyes  taking  her  in  were  a 
lubricant  to  her  words.  She  could  never  have  spoken  so  at 
first  in  a  tailor-made  suit.  She  would  have  laughed  with 
the  freedom  of  sincere  denial  at  a  friend  who  ventured  to 
link  the  exhibition  of  her  soul  with  the  exhibition  of  her  body. 

It  was  through  Laura  Duffield  that  Tom  came  to  his  real 
establishment  in  practice.  Gilbert  Lomney  was  her  cousin. 
For  him,  Laura  was  a  brilliant  woman  who  somehow  had 
managed  also  to  be  good.  He  had  great  admiration  for  her, 
not  a  little  fear.  It  was  by  her  strategy  that  "Lomney  and 
Rennard"  was  brought  about. 


i34  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

The  City  had  welcomed  its  own  stuff  in  Tom  and  Cornelia. 
The  City  had  come  from  the  same  sort  of  place.  At  the  be 
ginning,  Tom  felt  this  not  at  all.  He  was  frightened  by 
the  City.  He  did  not  understand  when  its  heights  bent  down 
and  touched  him.  Each  suppliant  before  New  York  goes 
through  the  same  amaze  as  the  unfriendly  Town  proves  lewdly 
hospitable.  Few  dare  to  admit  her  wantonness  since  the 
avowal  would  take  from  the  measure  of  their  prowess.  In 
the  early  bewilderment  of  being  taken-in,  of  finding  a  naked 
mistress  in  place  of  a  shrouded  goddess,  the  critical  faculties 
are  struck  to  sleep. 

The  years  of  the  preparing  of  success  in  Tom  were  like 
the  growth  of  love  in  their  delirious  simplicity,  the  sort  of 
wild  progression  that  one  finds  best  revealed  in  mathematics. 
A  true  tumescence.  Tom  found  some  one  who  liked  his 
humor  and  his  freedom.  He  introduced  him  to  a  strategic 
hostess.  There  was  opened  a  breach  in  the  trenched  City. 
There  was  more  than  one  of  these  amiable  friends.  Each 
multiplied  opportunity  at  a  geometric  rate.  Tom  was  soon 
in  a  position  to  choose,  and  from  choice  comes  judgment.  He 
was  soon  surfeited  with  chances,  and  from  surfeit  comes  dis 
illusion. 

To  be  alone  in  the  City  requires  a  technique  that  only  the 
child  born  in  the  City  or  the  genius  may  possess.  On  all 
sides  of  Tom  were  people  ready  to  be  amused,  ready  to  use 
him,  ready  to  use  him  up.  No  bright  young  man  without  the 
taint  of  an  uncomfortable  message  need  go  to  waste  in  New 
York.  Each  clever  little  thing  he  does  or  says  will  echo, 
until,  if  he  does  not  take  care,  he  may  be  deafened  by  its 
rebounding  clamor.  He  may  drop  like  a  pebble,  he  may  sink 
straight  to  the  oblivious  bottom  of  the  lake:  but  not  before 
myriad  wreathings  forth  have  made  him  the  hour's  center  of 
a  rippling  world.  If  he  step  forward,  he  will  step  on  some 
one's  heels,  and  that  some  one's  friends  will,  for  this  chance 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  135 

beneficence,  cherish  and  advertise  him.  If  he  step  back,  the 
same  thing  will  occur.  If  he  stand  still,  he  will  obstruct  the 
one  behind  him  who  is  moving  forward,  and  this  too  will  net 
him  a  sincere  appreciation.  He  must  be  a  genius  or  a  willful 
man  to  escape  acceptance  by  the  City. 

Tom  Rennard  was  neither.  He  found  that  the  man  in 
whose  law-offices  he  learned  far  better  than  in  law-school 
appreciated  him  and,  when  he  was  admitted  to  the  Bar,  sent 
him  work.  He  found,  arguing  a  trivial  motion,  that  he  was 
eyed  with  interest  by  nonchalant  attorneys  as  he  stepped 
back  to  the  counsel-table.  He  found  that  his  brain  could  be 
sold  if  at  first  he  were  willing  to  sell  it  cheap.  Lawyers  too 
busy  drumming  business  thought  they  were  exploiting  Tom 
when  they  employed  him  to  be  of  counsel  in  some  tort  case 
and  let  him  do  the  work.  Several  dull  fellows  with  gratuitous 
patronage  stuck  to  him  regularly  until  they  found  themselves 
with  fees  in  their  pockets  and  with  their  sinecures  entailed. 
Tom  had  a  way  of  making  a  Judge  smile  that  the  men  of  the 
Bar  respected  as  they  would  not,  in  a  lifetime,  respect  Justice. 
He  was  quick  to  see  that  the  able  counsel  acts,  before  the 
Bench,  not  as  a  lawyer  but  as  a  man:  that  the  tricks  of 
erudition  and  the  flourishes  of  oratory  gleaned  from  law-school 
had  best  be  packed  away.  His  average  Judge  was  a  shrewd 
politician  who,  above  all,  must  not  be  made  to  feel  his  juridic 
ignorance.  What  he  required  from  counsel  was  a  mirror  in 
which  he  might  see  his  power  reflected:  and  his  power  con 
sisted  not  at  all  in  judicial  learning — display  of  that  was  an 
embarrassment — but  in  a  canny  sense  of  men  and  use  of 
means.  Tom  talked  to  the  Bench,  man  to  man,  asking-man 
to  man-who-hath,  with  a  candor  most  attorneys  needed  twenty 
years  to  strip  to.  His  attitude  brought  reward.  Judges 
leaned  comfortably  back  and  talked  things  over  with  him. 
When  he  reappeared  before  them,  he  was  remembered. 


136  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

"But  do  you  think,  Mr.  Rennard,  that  this  point  is  per 
tinent?'' 

"Yes,  your  Honor,  I  do.  And  I  am  sure  if  you  will  just 
recall  to  mind  the  case  of  Larson  versus  Mann — the  ques 
tion  is  one  that  has  long  interested  me  and  I  looked  it  up 'r 

Who  was  this  Mr.  Rennard?  this  young  and  unknown  Mrk 
Rennard  who  had  a  way  of  warming  the  air  of  a  court-room  to 
his  own  purposes?  The  question  was  asked:  the  questioners 
answered  it.  They  gave  him  respect  before  he  had  clients: 
they  gave  him  the  beginnings  of  repute  at  a  time  when  he 
had  nothing  else.  Hating  and  fearing  each  other,  they 
wanted  Rennard  on  their  side. 

Tom's  advance  in  the  social  world  was  synchronous.  The 
ladies  who  give  teas  are  the  sort  who  care  for  unattached 
young  men.  They  are  unhappily  married,  or  at  least  unsatis- 
fyingly  so:  if  they  have  children  they  wish  to  get  free  of 
loving  them  too  much.  Grown  sons  can  be  admired  safely  in 
a  surrogate:  grown  daughters  can  be  restrained  from  mastery 
in  a  fierce  competition.  The  smart  young  man  may  be  a 
weapon  and  a  drug  for  the  woman  nearing  forty  with  social 
honors  to  defend.  He  serves  to  protect  her  from  life  and  to 
supply  her  with  it.  The  relation  has  its  hazards.  It  must  run 
the  course  of  the  golden  mean.  The  man  must  not  really  love, 
not  really  win  his  lady.  For  her  sake,  as  for  his.  If  she 
gives  herself  consciously  to  him,  she  will  begin  at  once  to 
bully  him  like  a  son  or  to  use  him  up  like  a  husband.  He 
will  become  both  son  and  husband  instead  of  the  escape  from 
them.  She  will  simply  repeat  her  family  failures  concen- 
tratedly  upon  him.  He  will  no  longer  provide  a  cure  for 
her  life.  He  will  stand  on  the  brink  of  disaster  or  dismissal. 

Through  no  prescience  and  no  conscious  cunning;  rather 
by  the  balance  of  his  nature,  Tom  was  made  for  such  a  role. 
And  Laura  Duffield  needed  him. 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  137 

Meantime  had  come  the  climax  of  her  troubles,  Mrs. 
Duffield  was  getting  a  divorce.  It  was  being  borne  in  on 
her  that  her  husband  was  nearly  bankrupt  and  that  her 
alimony  would  be  in  ironic  contrast  to  the  demands  of  her 
position.  Her  way  of  living  was  no  small  part  of  her  "moral 
ity.'7  It  was  menaced. 

Deems  Duffield  was  a  broker.  For  fifteen  years  he  had 
made  a  debauch  of  his  life  and  won  from  it  a  rare  measure 
of  content.  When  at  last  Mrs.  Duffield  decided  on  divorce, 
his  fortune — his  last  fortune — had  gone  the  way  of  his  self- 
respect.  It  was  plain  that  there  would  be  difficulty  in  keep 
ing  Farge  at  College.  Fortunately,  Marcia  had  no  educa 
tional  conceits.  She  was  at  ease  with  a  few  lovely  gowns: 
she  was  informed  with  a  spirit  of  shrewd  economy  that  amazed 
her  improvident  mother.  Duffield  seldom  saw  his  children: 
which  Marcia  considered  rather  silly.  "Why  not?  He's  de 
lightful  company."  She  had  the  wit  to  enjoy  him,  perhaps 
potentially  the  depravity  not  to  be  concerned  with  his.  But 
Farge  was  dully  loyal  and  not  on  speaking  terms  with  his 
prodigal  father.  Duffield 's  ruinous  irresponsibility  had  brok 
en  his  son's  spirit.  In  the  example  of  his  father's  evil  charm, 
Farge  lost  that  brusque  approach  to  the  demands  of  life 
which  mark  off  certain  men  from  the  hordes  of  the  mediocre. 
His  cynicism  was  inept,  his  anger  impotent:  his  confidence 
was  gone.  Adversely,  her  father's  nature  went  toward  the 
making  of  Marcia.  It  taught  her  to  swim  nimbly  between 
rocks,  love  danger,  understand  the  world.  Her  cynicism  be 
came  a  deadly  intuition  of  the  channels  of  success:  her  anger 
was  a  sheath  preventing  the  incisions  of  sentiment  and  pity: 
her  break  with  childish  faith  marked  the  emergence  of  a 
design  based  on  that  faith's  falsity.  It  seemed  to  her  a  trait 
far  too  emotional  in  her  mother  to  be  angry  at  the  man  who 
had  ruined  them  all. 

"Leave   him   be!     You   know  he's   amusing  to   talk   to. 


138  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

Never  worry,  Mamma.  Soon  as  I'm  tired  of  this  I'll  get  mar 
ried  and  fix  you  for  life." 

There  was  no  slightest  doubt  in  Mrs.  Duffield  of  Marcia's 
capacity  to  keep  her  promise. 

From  her  confidence  in  part  came  the  inspiration  to  bear 
up,  to  borrow  dangerous  sums  of  money.  For  years  the 
Duffields  had  been  spending  twice  what  came  in:  he  on  his 
Broadway  favorites,  she  on  her  social  equipage.  But  even 
after  Duffield's  strike  against  paying  for  his  wife's  affairs, 
even  after  the  first  skirmishes  of  the  divorce  with  their  cold 
proof  that  the  clever  broker  would  be  able  to  escape  with  a 
scant  alimony,  her  social  functions  remained  brilliant,  her 
head  remained  high.  Laura  Duffield  was  playing  the  role 
her  faith,  her  one  faith,  sanctified.  She  needed  the  confes 
sional  of  youth  for  the  strength  to  do  so. 

One  last  time,  her  husband  called  on  her.  A  smooth,  stout, 
suave  man:  smartly  groomed,  full  of  sweet  words,  twinkling 
of  eye. 

"Laura,"  he  said,  "it  will  be  bad  business  for  us  both  if 
you  insist  on  this  divorce.  And  the  worst  goes  to  you.  I 
can  weigh  in  to  a  mighty  small  income,  of  which  half,  dear, 
will  be  yours.  Most  of  my  winnings  are  of  a  sort,  my  dear, 
that  it  would  make  Justice  blush  to  have  to  rule  on.  So, 
considerate  gentleman  that  I  am,  I  must  hide  from  the  Judge 
what  might  prove  embarrassing.  Hand  in  hand,  you  and  I 
can  bear  up  and  have  no  fear.  For  all  that  is  mine  is  thine. 
But,  dear,  if  you  insist  on  this  legal  separation  you  must  be 
satisfied  with  what  will  turn  out  to  be  your  legal  separation 
from  my  money.  You  would  faint,  beloved,  if  I  told  you 
what  you  may  expect." 

Mrs.  Duffield  saw  the  very  grim  reality  in  his  threat:  knew 
as  alone  the  social  officer  knows  what  misery  of  deceit  and 
sordidness  the  want  of  funds  must  bring  to  the  fulfillment  of 
the  one  life  she  could  live.  She  answered: 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  139 

"I  can't  stand  any  longer  the  thought  that  you  acre  my 
husband.  I  must  be  free  of  that.  I  am  unclean  and  I  am 
taking  a  bath." 

Duffield  smiled. 

"The  bath,  my  dear,  you  took  some  years  ago.  Why  re 
peat  it  in  public?" 

She  winced. 

"I  have  no  wish  to  resume  relations  with  you,  Laura.  All 
I  object  to  is  this  exhibition." 

"Unfortunately,  it  has  to  be.  I  relish  it  no  more  than 
you.  I  deserve  it  less.  Our  marriage  was  public.  My 
cleaning  my  hands  of  you  must  be  public  also.  If  you  were 
so  considerate  and  scrupulous  as  you  pretended,  you  could 
save  us  much  by  not  defending  the  suit." 

"I  may  be  considerate.  But  if  I  am  hit,  I  hit  back.  I 
have  not  objected  to  your  virtual  quarantine  of  me,  these  past 
ten  years.  I  have  behaved  and  kept  up  front.  I  have  shown 
in  at  your  parties  and  paid  your  debts  when  they  grew 
troublesome.  The  only  time,  my  dear,  ever  to  pay  a  debt. 
But  if  you  insist  on  placarding  my  love-affairs,  I'll  fight." 

"Very  well.  Go  and  do  your  worst.  I  shall  of  course  get 
the  dirty  end  of  this.  I  have,  all  my  life.  But  don't  expect 
I'll  make  peace  with  you." 

"Laura,  you  are  a  fool."    Duffield  stood  up. 

"I  know  I  am.  I  am  sort  of  glad,  that  you  think  I  am  a 
fool.  It  puts  me  miles  out  of  reach  of  your  kind  of  wisdom. 
I  know  I  am  a  fool.  You  had  your  share  in  making  me  one. 
But  even  you  shan't  succeed  in  making  me  a  coward." 

Deems  Duffield  sighed  and  drew  on  his  fawn-hued  gloves 
and  sent  a  little  whistling  note  through  his  shut  teeth.  Com 
ing  up  to  his  wife,  he  looked  at  her  and  slowly  shook  his 
head.  He  placed  his  hands  on  her  thin  shoulders;  their  eyes 
met. 

"It's  a  fight,  then,  my  dear?"    He  said  this  pleasantly. 


140  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

"I  am  sorry,  Deems,  you  have  made  such  a  ruin  of  our 
lives." 

"I  am  sorry,  also,  Laura." 

He  drew  her  quickly  to  him.  He  kissed  her  forehead  and 
stepped  back. 

"Good-by.  You  are  the  best  thing  I  have  ever  had,  and  I 
hate  to  see  that  I  have  lost  you.  But  it's  not  the  best  things 
we  need  most,  my  dear.  It's  the  ordinary  things.  Often  in 
life,  we  have  to  get  along  without  the  best  in  order  to  have 
the  common." 

She  stood  breathing  deeply,  white  and  strained  from  his 
words.  In  her  mind  was  a  racing  kaleidoscope:  how  he  first 
had  kissed  her,  and  taught  her  love;  how  fearful  she  had 
somehow  been,  and  how  he  had  fallen  away.  In  her  soul 
was  a  sense  of  guilt.  She  said  nothing:  he  was  gone. 

She  rang  the  bell. 

"Delia,"  she  said  to  the  entering  maid,  "I  have  changed 
my  mind.  If  any  one  calls  this  afternoon,  I  am  in." 

She  threw  herself  on  the  chaise-longue  and  picked  up  her 
novel.  The  Egoist  of  Meredith.  Its  crystalline  obscurity 
distressed  her.  It  seemed  so  far  removed  from  life:  so 
frigidly  in  diapason  between  the  Sun  and  the  North  Pole. 
She  threw  the  book  away  and  scribbled  a  sentence  on  the 
edge  of  a  newspaper  that  lay  near  her  hand. 

"All  marriages  that  turn  out  monstrously  begin  as  idylls. 
Indifference  at  the  start  is  the  one  defense  against  horror  at 
the  end." 

"How  I  wish  I  could  express  myself!"  she  sighed.  She 
tore  off  the  edge  of  paper,  crumpled  it,  thrust  it  in  her 
corsage.  Marcia  was  there. 

"I  met  father  in  the  street."  Marcia  made  no  further  greet 
ing  to  her  mother.  "He  seemed  in  fine  fettle." 

Speaking  she  crossed  to  her  own  room.  She  shut  the  door. 
Her  thought  ran:  "Papa  hasn't  Mamma's  family  but  he  makes 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  141 

up  for  it  in  liveliness."  She  examined  herself  in  the  mirror 
and  took  off  her  hat.  "I  wonder  whether  it  is  a  wise  thing 
to  confuse  marriage  and  love.  I  wonder  whether  the  woman 
must  always  get  the  worst  of  it,  like  Mamma.  Perhaps  not. 
Mamma  is  the  so-called  innocent  one.  Perhaps  the  rule  is  that 
•the  innocent  one,  of  whatever  sex,  should  get  the  worst  of  it. 
I'll  remember  that."  She  had  dropped  her  suit  on  the  floor 
and  slipped  into  a  blue  crepe  de  chine  gown  that  hung  straight 
and  square  from  her  shoulders.  Within  it,  her  body  moved 
like  a  still  sure  mechanism.  "Oh,  well,"  she  said,  half  aloud, 
throwing  herself  on  her  couch  and  taking  a  book,  "the  sins 
of  the  parents  shall  educate  the  children  unto  the  third  and 
fourth  generation." 

She  remembered  her  unopened  letters  on  the  table  near  the 
lamp  beside  her.  She  reached  for  an  ivory  paper-cutter  and 
began  to  open  them. 

One  of  them,  from  an  unknown  hand: — 

DEAR  Miss  DUFFIELD: 

I  have  something  of  interest  I  wish  to  tell  to  you,  and  I 
must  see  you  alone  to  do  so.  Will  you  have  tea  with  me,  say 
at  the  Orange  Tea-Pot,  next  Wednesday  at  five?  You  will 
catch  the  reason  and  the  caution  implied  in  the  rather  unfre 
quented  place.  It  is  not  bad,  though. 
I  hope  to  see  you,  and  am, 

Yours  most  sincerely, 
THOMAS  RENNARD. 

Marcia  read  the  remaining  notes:  placed  them  all  back  in 
their  envelopes  upon  the  table:  took  her  book.  She  read  for 
an  hour.  She  called  the  maid,  ordered  a  bath,  undressed. 
She  stood  for  a  moment  before  her  cheval  glass,  hesitant  to 
throw  her  bath-robe  over  her  nakedness.  With  a  free  delight 
she  watched  the  bright  strength  of  her  body.  Her  hips  were 
slight  and  firm:  her  breasts  were  two  swift  standing  rondures: 
her  abdomen  drew  tautly  down  into  the  straight  and  narrowly 


142  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

set  legs.  Marcia  knew  from  statues  she  had  seen  that  this 
faint  triangle  of  strain,  tracing  and  pointing  downward  at 
her  thighs,  was  almost  masculine.  There  was  voluptuousness 
in  this:  and  in  the  clear  black  hair  falling  about  her  body, 
making  its  whiteness  burn.  Marcia  hated  that  flabbiness 
of  mind  and  form  which  she  called  feminine.  Coquettishly, 
as  if  to  bar  another's  pleasure,  she  threw  a  robe  across  her 
shoulders.  She  seemed  to  be  outside  desiring  to  be  in.  With 
the  check  to  her  nibbling  sense,  her  mind  went  free,  and  she 
began  to  think  of  Thomas  Rennard. 

How  was  he  able  to  be  sure  she  would  not  take  his  pre 
suming  letter  to  the  lady  he  was  assiduously  courting — and 
exploiting?  Marcia  caught  herself  so  forming  her  question. 
She  tried  to  change  it:  "How  does  he  know  I  won't?  .  .  . 
Well,  I  will."  She  wondered  if  she  would.  Imperceptibly, 
she  had  returned  to  the  first  form  of  her  question.  She  re 
sented  Tom.  Her  mother  was  working  for  him  with  far 
greater  will  than  any  of  the  other  "friends"  had  been  able 
to  inspire.  It  was  clear  already  that  this  young  flasher  from 
Ohio  was  going  to  have  the  dull  but  golden  Lomney  for  a 
partner.  A  bit  dangerous,  thought  Marcia.  What  if  next 
year,  her  mother  tired  of  him?  What  if  he  proved  too  false? 
Marcia  smiled.  There  seemed  small  doubt  of  that.  There 
he  would  be,  deep  in  their  Group,  inextricable.  Matters  must 
not  go  so  fast.  Marcia  must  delay  them.  She  pictured  the 
pair,  lost  in  their  confidences,  and  was  troubled  how. 
"  She  came  back  to  the  note.  What  had  heartened  him  to 
send  it?  Was  Mr.  Rennard  after  all  a  rash  importunate,  one 
easily  ruined?  Marcia  did  not  doubt  the  true  purpose  of  the 
note.  He  wanted  her  to  tea.  He  could  not  pay  attention  to 
her  here.  That  was  enough.  Did  he  truly  desire  this  enough 
to  risk  his  hold  on  her  mother?  A  dangerous — compliment. 

She  went  over  the  always  chance  occasions  she  had  seen 
him.    Never   alone.    She   had   felt   the   pointedness   of  his 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  143 

glances  toward  her:  caught  him  talking  to  her  mother  with  a 
strained  interest  in  her  own  mood.  She  had  tested  this  by 
changing  her  mood  and  watching  his  rapid  awareness.  He 
was  a  curious  man:  bright,  lithe  in  all  senses,  unbelievably 
hard,  yet  fraught  with  a  glow  that  she  was  sure  impact  might 
turn  to  fire.  She  wandered  over  his  personality.  She  felt  he 
was  too  clever  and  too  sensible  to  be  sincere.  Yet  his 
standards  seemed  too  directly  those  of  his  intelligence  and 
strength  to  lend  reason  to  insincerity.  She  did  not  know. 
She  did  know  she  would  have  tea  with  him:  and  say  nothing 
to  her  mother. 

It  was  easily  reasoned.  "I'll  control  him,  myself.  If  he 
goes  too  far  or  too  fast,  I'll  have  the  weapon  of  a  word  to 
Mamma.  What  a  brazen,  simple  country  boy  it  is!  ...  " 

She  went:  she  was  right  at  least  in  this,  that  Tom  had 
nothing  to  impart  to  her  "of  interest"  beyond  that  he  liked 
her  and  of  course  couldn't  see  her  really  at  her  mother's.  In 
all  else,  she  was  wrong.  She  could  not  understand  this  sud 
den,  cold-passionate  man.  In  writing  to  Marcia  Duffield,  he 
had  not  understood  himself. 

"Perhaps  I'll  know  better  when  I  have  talked  to  her  across 
a  table." 

She  came  with  a  spur  of  adventure.  She  was  trapping  her 
foe.  While  he  reveled  in  his  success,  letting  his  pleasure  out, 
she  would  enmesh  him.  Thereafter,  should  he  ever  move  in 
a  direction  she  did  not  like,  Marcia  would  soon  show  him  in 
whose  hands  he  was.  Marcia  was  so  astir  with  her  scheme 
that  she  thought  herself  cool  arid  collected.  She  had  a  dogged 
affection  for  her  mother:  a  sort  of  animal  loyalty  in  which 
was  properly  admixed  a  very  human  loyalty  to  herself.  Here, 
she  was  quite  sure,  there  was  question  only  of  her  mother. 

Tom,  meantime;  waited  and  went  over  in  his  mind  th6 
impressions  in  confidence  of  which  he  had  dared  write  his 
letter. 


144  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

"A  girl  absolutely  incapable  of  carrying  an  altruistic  act 
to  an  end  .  .  .  and  yet — a  Christian!  If  she  resolved  to 
serve  her  mother  by  telling  her  I  was  flirting  with  her  daughter 
— and  she  is  convinced  that  this  would  serve  her  mother: 
she  must  be  hostile  instinctively  to  her  mother's  friend — she 
would  have  to  be  sure,  first,  she  did  not  care  for  me.  She 
is  coming  to-day  to  find  out.  It  all  depends  on  to-day.  If 
she  does  not  like  me  she  will  betray  me  with  a  sense  of  serv 
ing  her  mother.  If  she  does  like  me,  she  will  take  secret 
delight  in  making  her  mother  a  fool.  .  .  .  Dear  little  fool 
herself!  If  she  knew  how  much  I  love  her  black  straight 
hair  and  her  white  straight  body,  how  little  I  care  in  contrast 
for  her  mother's  interest  in  my  future!  If  she  knew — well, 
she  must  know." 

He  went  forward,  seeing  her  at  the  door — seeing  the  shrewd 
determination  in  her  face  as  she  came  forward  to  him. 

"Miss  Duffield,"  he  said,  "you  are  not  going  to  make  the 
mistake  so  many  make  of  thinking  what  I  do  a  deliberate 
thing.  If  you  will  examine  my  note  with  care,  you  will  find 
in  it  all  the  silly  guile  of  sudden  inspiration.  I  am  a  creature 
of  moods. "  He  looked  at  her  as  he  had  wanted  to,  across 
the  table.  "So  are  you,  Miss  Duffield." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"Why  else  did  you  come?" 

She  was  not  so  foolish  as  to  say:  "There  might  be  other 
reasons."  She  was  not  so  willing  as  to  admit  his  statement. 
She  was  silent.  Tom  began  to  laugh:  a  clear,  long  laughter. 
When  he  was  done,  they  both  knew  he  had  laughed  something 
away. 

The  rest  was  easy.  Marcia  was  certain  that  Tom  was  the 
contrary  of  canny  and  deliberate.  He  liked  her:  he  had  done 
a  direct  thing  to  see  her.  He  was  unworldly  as  ever  a  man 
must  be  who  understands  a  woman. 

And  she  liked  him.     She  liked  the  respectful  way  he  spoke 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  145 

of  her  mother.  Somehow,  it  gave  her  a  sense  that  he  was 
trustworthy:  although  she  had  no  thought  of  why  this  qual 
ity  should  particularly  interest  her.  She  liked  the  assump 
tion  in  his  words  of  her  superior  perspective. 

"Of  course,  Mrs.  Duffield  would  not  understand  our  com 
ing  down  here  to  have  tea  together.  Dear  lady!  Does  not 
a  tinge  of  deception  ha,ve  to  go  into  a  sincere  relation?  Every 
mother  must  forget  her  daughter  if  she  would  live.  It  is  the 
duty  not  alone  of  her  friends — of  her  daughter  also — to  see 
she  may.  For  her  to  know  the  truth  of  you  and  me  would 
be,  not  to  know  the  truth  from  the  standpoint  of  her  and  me, 
but  an  irrelevant,  damaging  lie." 

He  said  these  words,  not  pleadingly,  not  in  argument,  but 
as  two  co-religionists  perhaps  might  mention  an  unmooted 
point:  or  as  two  students  might  discuss  a  lesson  they  had 
learned  together.  .  .  .  Tom  had,  not  an  enemy  in  the  house 
of  Duffield,  but  another  ally:  a  subtle,  an  amazing  one.  Far 
from  having  been  delivered  into  Marcia's  hands,  the  hasten 
ing  events  laid  her  at  least  equally  in  his. 

They  balanced  the  accounts.  .  .  . 

Marcia  was  wine  for  Tom.  Never  before  had  he  been  so 
held  by  the  body  of  a  woman.  Never  had  he  dreamed  a 
woman  could  so  swing  with  both  reserves  and  desires:  so  with 
out  effort,  without  stint. 

She  filled  his  room  with  miracle.  She  filled  his  life  with 
the  ease  of  power.  How  did  this  come  about:  this  wonder 
he  had  in  touching  her  cold  skin,  in  meeting  the  hardness 
of  her  teeth,  her  soft  lips?  What  was  this  Marcia? 

Madness,  .  .  .  Madness  in  sanity  as  wine  in  a  cool  cup. 
She  came  to  his  warm  room.  She  did  not  kiss  him.  She  did 
not  speak.  She  did  not  stir.  She  was  there. 

She  felt  a  flame  rise  near  her.  It  would  soon  catch  her 
clothes,  burn  them  up.  Her  it  would  temper,  make  mellow. 


146  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

She  stood,  looking  at  the  flame,  this  subtle  man,  who  held 
back  his  hands  and  whose  eyes  were  on  her.  What  should 
she  do?  Why  did  he  not  come  forward?  He  burned  straight, 
there  across  the  room,  like  a  flame  in  a  windless  world.  Al 
ways  his  hands  held  back.  Her  clothes  sagged  to  a  dulling 
weight.  .  .  .  Marcia  stood  swaying  with  the  need  of  burning. 
Would  he  not  help?  Then  she  would  help  herself.  Delicious 
fool  that  he  was! 

He  was  perfume  and  flame:  each  pore  of  her  was  big  with 
him. 

Tom  watched  the  firm,  still  whiteness  of  her  self  emerge 
from  the  lie  of  her  clothes.  No  woman.  She  was  a  god. 
She  was  a  pillar  of  purity  and  strength.  No  lascivious 
rondures  and  flauntings  of  flesh,  no  softnesses.  A  human 
form  stripped  to  essential  grace.  An  instrument  of  living, 
spare  and  direct  like  a  command,  flaying  like  a  rod,  swift 
like  his  passion. 

They  loved. 

They  gave  no  thought  to  the  Shadow — the  long  intricate 
life-way  of  which  the  passion  of  woman  and  man  is  the  mere 
flaming  threshold.  Both  of  them  knew  this.  Each  drank, 
in  the  other,  a  secret  satisfaction  whose  mystery  and  time- 
lessness  thrilled  them.  They  did  not  understand  themselves 
or  each  other.  Their  love's  dissidence  from  the  plodding  and 
gluttonous  way  of  husband  and  wife  was  a  brew  sharp,  sweet, 
wild:  they  were  drunk  in  it  together.  No  more  they  had  in 
common  than  their  intoxication.  Themselves,  each  other,  the 
nature  of  their  love — all  was  unknown  and  secret.  They 
scarce  spoke  of  it.  They  drank  and  were  glad,  and  were 
never  content.  .  .  . 

Out  of  the  silence  of  each,  they  came  again.  The  subtle 
liquor  worked  its  miracle;  they  were  one  into  a  flame  whose 
leaping  walled  about  them — disappeared  as  a  song  stops — 
leaving  them  their  silences.  These  carried  them  off,  each  to 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  147 

a  far  deliberate  world.  No  memory,  no  reason:  absence  of 
desire.  Until  such  time  as  a  rising  murmur  in  their  separate 
silences  swerved  them,  flung  their  silences  once  more  together. 
All  this,  merely  the  spill  of  Tom's  full  life;  prelude  in  hers. 
His  work  prospered.  Tom  had  the  genius  of  diligence.  He 
poured  himself  no  more  into  his  affairs  downtown  than  into 
some  unremunerative  affair  at  a  friend's,  where  the  price  of 
applause  was  exhaustion.  With  Tom,  exhaustion  was  breath 
ing  space  till  the  next  passion.  So  he  prospered  in  work  and 
in  play.  Laura  Duffield  was  his  devoted  friend.  Gilbert 
Lomney  was  his  partner.  To  both,  as  to  Marcia,  he  was  sat 
isfying  in  the  measure  that  was  wise. 

Upon  this  heyday  of  his  success,  David  now  blundered  as  a 
dull  boy  stumbles  over  another's  floor-full  of  tin  soldiers. 

There  seemed  no  cease  to  the  miracle  of  Marcia:  to  the 
delight  of  the  insatiety  between  them.  Laura  Duffield  was 
divorced  and  more  than  ever  with  her  new  gallant  friend. 
In  her  family  and  in  her  world,  he  was  a  secret  champion,  a 
strong  prop.  His  relations  had  wreathed  out.  He  was  wel 
come  in  many  houses:  he  was  a  chord  of  many  circles.  His 
partner  had  come  to  worship  him  with  a  canine  fidelity. 
Lomney  was  so  dully  at  home  in  his  desirable  set  that  he 
no  longer  felt  its  desirability:  he  was  convinced  that  in  intro 
ducing  Tom  he  did  the  set  a  favor.  Tom  did  not  disillusion 
him.  He  laughed  about  it  with  Cornelia,  and  made  her 
partner  of  his  pleasures  in  order  to  keep  her  partner  of  his 
reserves.  With  her  to  see  on  the  morrow,  Tom  took  to  the 
gilded  foyers,  the  gilded  youth  of  the  City  with  a  cool  grace 
that  lissomly  assured  his  comfort  and  his  usage.  Laura 
Duffield  gave  him  a  gesture  of  confidence;  Marcia  the  glow  of 
triumph:  his  law  affairs  the  agility  to  move  forth  and  back 
with  telling  unconcern.  Cornelia  gave  him  what  he  needed 
of  a  home.  He  was  a  splendid  product  of  the  City.  Now, 


148  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

David  Markand,  with  his  dear  clumsiness,  to  clog  and  clutter 
it  all. 

Marcia  felt  it  first,  felt  it  before  he  did. 

She  sat  on  his  bed;  she  looked  at  him  where  he  smoldered 
in  a  corner  smoking  intemperate  cigarettes.  It  was  a  mood, 
she  thought;  she  said  nothing.  She  put  on  her  clothes. 

"Good-by." 

He  tore  apart  his  revery.     "Good-by." 

But  the  edge  of  his  love  was  dulling.  Always  now,  he 
was  likely  to  leave  her  side  and  sit  away  from  her  and 
look  away  and  smoke:  while  she  lay  aching  with  blinded 
desire,  watching  him,  pressing  her  breast  with  angering  hands 
till  its  pain  stop  the  pain  of  her  heart. 

She  sat  up  suddenly  so  he  was  forced  to  look.  His  eyes 
were  upon  her  whom  they  loved;  yet  they*  were  distant,  they 
were  lost  in  a  mist,  they  did  not  see  her.  In  her  beauty  she 
stood  up  to  him,  all  her  clear  straight  agile  body  calling  him 
close:  he  bit  his  lips  and  his  eyes  were  looking  beyond  her. 

Then  she  said:  "There's  some  one  else,  is  there  not,  Tom?" 

He  did  not  look  at  her  eagerness.     He  shook  his  head. 

"There's  another  woman." 

He  was  angry.  "It's  not  so."  More  force  spilling  away 
that  her  body  yearned  for.  This  urged  her  on. 

"There's  another  woman!" 

She  needed  his  focussing  upon  her,  even  if  it  were  but  in 
wrath.  She  stood  over  him  now.  She  knew  he  loved  her 
so,  with  the  lines  of  her  body  shrill  and  clarified  in  standing. 
Tom  was  white  with  anger.  He  grasped  her  and  broke  her  in 
anger.  She  laughed  in  love.  .  .  . 

He  loved  her  as  never  before,  that  afternoon.  Because  he 
loved  her  as  never  again. 

The  year  that  David  lived  alone  was  the  year  of  Tom's 
struggle  with  him.  It  was  not  a  question  of  changing  his  life. 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  149 

It  was  a  question  of  capturing  the  subjective  opposition,  as 
it  came  forward  in  the  nearness  of  his  new  friend. 

Tom  knew  a  way.  This  inner  inhibition  stood  objectified 
in  David.  Let  him  capture  David.  David  was  his  old  lov? 
of  giving  instead  of  constantly  taking,  of  being  calm  and 
passive  instead  of  constantly  pursuing.  In  him,  Tom  saw 
the  restful  cleanliness  of  despising  this  race  he  was  running 
hotly:  the  futility  of  spending  one's  dreams  upon  a  contest 
that  was  never  done  and  whose  prize  was  death.  He  would 
not  give  up  his  entry.  He  needed  the  mundane  sense  of 
power,  the  badge  of  success:  he  was  too  sensual  to  forego  the 
liquor  of  attention.  But  he  needed  also  to  still  the  voice  that 
kept  saying:  "Fool I"  By  the  old  process  of  projection,  ha 
now  saw  these  words  in  the  eyes  of  David.  If  he  could  have 
David,  he  could  have  silence. 

He  watched  him  with  a  growing  steadfastness  and  a  dwin 
dling  clarity.  He  knew  at  last  that  he  wanted  to  win  him. 
He  knew  that  the  affection  between  David  and  Cornelia  stood 
most  in  his  way. 

All  that  year,  he  studied  David.  He  came  to  understand 
his  habits  and  his  moods.  He  inserted  himself  upon  his 
groping  friend  with  the  deliberate  reserve  of  a  chemist  apply 
ing  weighed  ingredients  to  a  solution. 

The  measuring  was  no  easy  task.  David  was  within  him 
self.  He  was  hidden.  It  was  plain  he  showed  more  of  his 
mind  and  spirit  to  Cornelia  than  to  her  brother.  They  spent 
evenings,  late  afternoons  together.  Walks  on  Sundajrs  be 
came  almost  a  custom.  Tom  was  frequently  along.  There 
was  no  slightest  wish  to  bar  him.  But  Cornelia  encouraged 
those  very  traits  in  David  that  must  keep  him  intractable, 
secure  to  himself. 

"And  the  world, — and  the  world?"  Tom  argued.  "You  are 
living  in  the  world.  It  touches  you  on  every  side,  at  every 
instant.  You  are  wrong  to  try  to  ignore  or  to  despise  it." 


150  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

Usually,  Cornelia  answered  for  her  friend. 

"We  are  the  world,  if  we  choose  to  have  it  so.  What  you 
mean  by  the  world  is  only  the  gross  and  the  impure.  Why 
alloy  yourself  with  that?" 

Tom  laughed.  He  knew  this  was  David  working  upon  his 
sister.  Her  life  and  her  work  were  essentially  conformist. 
She  was  no  hermit,  no  rebel.  She  had  had  her  great  revolt, 
she  had  settled.  She  was  not  so  very  different  from  him. 
But  Tom  was  too  wise  to  say  these  things  before  their  friend. 
To  humiliate  Cornelia  before  David  would  have  the  effect  of 
estranging  him.  David  would  judge  him  and  not  understand. 
The  idea  that  he  could  influence  Cornelia  was  beyond  David's 
belief.  ...  All  this  behind  Tom's  laughing. 

He  kept  silent,  above  all  kept  pleasant.  He  saw  Cornelia'3 
motherhood  once  more  hunting  and  hungry.  She  was  going 
to  preserve  David  from  a  hostile  world,  though  it  be  with 
her  own  body.  He  watched  her  passion  and  David's  dispas 
sionate  compliance.  He  worked  his  own  will  when  they  were 
alone. 

"Cornelia  has  a  habit  I  can  well  enough  understand  of 
wishing  to  make  my  friends  into  what  she  would  have  liked 
to  be,  herself." 

"Isn't  she  what  she  would  like  to  be  herself?"  asked  David. 

Tom  smiled,  and  was  serious.  "To  succeed,  for  most  of 
us,  means  breaking  through  an  iron  barrier.  Even  those  of 
us  who  do  so  cannot  escape  a  little  maiming." 

"You  are  so  violent  in  your  statements,  Tom!"  The  idea 
of  Cornelia  maimed  was  nonsense  to  him. 

They  went  on  talking  of  her  new  season's  work. 

"There  were  a  number  of  unfortunate  little  changes  she 
had  to  submit  to  in  her  exhibit.  I  was  heart-broken.  But 
thank  the  Lord,  Cornelia  is  sensible.  Else,  she  might  be  a 
good  artist  but  she'd  be  broke." 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  151 

"Why  won't  they  let  people  alone,  when  they  have  beauti 
ful  things  to  say?" 

"Oh,  they  will,  quick  enough!  Strictly  alone.  They'll  not 
pester  them  with  orders.  You  mustn't  take  Cornelia's  art 
too  seriously,  David.  It  is  chiefly  her  art  of  living.  If  you 
think  her  very  pretty  statues  great,  you'll  be  taking  to  heart 
every  word  she  tells  you.  .  .  ." 

All  subtly  merged  with  his  love  for  her  and  his  loyalty  and 
knowledge  of  the  years  when  he  had  slaved  for  her  and  given 
her  her  chance.  David  could  not  bring  himself  to  the  con 
sciousness  of  an  objection.  He  said  to  himself: 

"Tom  is  simply  honest  beyond  any  honesty  I  have  ever 
imagined."  He  was  right.  Tom  was.  He  was  not  disloyal 
to  his  sister.  He  said  no  word  of  untruth.  He  was  as  kind 
and  as  loving  as  he  had  ever  been.  As  ten  years  before,  he 
would  have  sacrificed  much  for  her  welfare.  But  she  was 
playing  a  game  against  him:  and  he  answered. 

David  came  to  believe  the  hot-and-cold  of  talk  with  Tom 
and  Cornelia  Rennard  an  atmosphere  implied  in  friendship 
with  such  clever,  exceptional  folk.  He  began  to  feel  that 
Tom's  candor  was  to  be  prized,  even  if  it  was  not  always 
easy  to  interpret:  and  that  Cornelia's  warm  encouragement 
was  to  be  discounted,  since  it  meant  escape  from  the  ungen 
erous  reality  Tom  told  him  he  must  soon  or  late  con 
front.  Because  of,  and  in  spite  of  her  sweet  charm,  Cornelia 
somehow  must  be  discounted. 

He  was  sure  he  cared  no  less  for  her.  He  was  a  man:  he 
was  understanding  a  woman's  natively  circumscribed  philoso 
phy,  her  natural  taste  for  a  reserved  and  personal  world. 
Cornelia  stood  already,  artist  though  she  was  and  rebel  at 
least  in  one  gesture  of  her  life — for  Family.  Tom  was  the 
world  of  affairs  and  of  adventure.  Oh,  yes:  David  began 
to  see  all  that.  So  of  course  he  could  understand  the  little 
flares  of  strain  between  the  two.  When  Cornelia's  attitude 


152  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

implied  a  rebuke  of  her  brother's  ways,  he  must  listen  sweetly 
to  her  words — as  true  to  herself  and  her  world — and  not  too 
seriously  apply  them. 

Pure  Tom  all  this.     But  only  Cornelia  knew  it. 

"What  on  earth  are  you  trying  to  do  with  him?"  she  asked 
her  brother. 

"My  dear  Cornelia,  how  you  talk!'7 

"Listen!" 

There  were  similarities  enough  between  them.  She  also 
could  drive  full  force  toward  a  single  point :  whip  her  intensity 
till  it  became  almost  a  deterrent  to  the  average  dull  person. 
But  Tom  could  meet  her  at  any  pitch.  He  had  one  talent 
which  she  lacked  and  he  knew  this  and  would  ruthlessly  ex 
ploit  it.  He  had  a  ready  sense  of  the  ridiculous :  a  light  riding 
mood  with  which  to  damper  her  flame. 

Cornelia  swung  upon  him  and  thrust  out  her  hand;  her  eyes 
blazed:  "Listen!" 

Tom,  on  the  couch,  curled  his  legs  under  him;  he  straight 
ened  like  a  schoolboy  before  his  teacher,  and  threw  a  mock- 
serious  frown  across  his  face.  Cornelia's  onslaught  could  not 
resist.  It  turned  into  argument — argument  gradually  stiffer, 
less  alive  against  his  mocking. 

"David  is  not  fit,  Tom,  he  never  could  be,  for  your  sort  of 
life."  He  was  still.  "What  he  needs,  it  seems  to  me,  is  a 
training  that  will  permit  him  to  develop  what  is  deepest  and 
truest  in  him:  his  sense  of  reserve,  his  great  purity  of  heart. 
The  finest  thing  about  David  is  his  nature's  implicit  criticism 
of  the  life  about  him."  Tom  still  listened.  "If  he  is  flung 
into  a  sophisticated  life,  his  own  incorrigible  innocence  will 
merely  thwart  whatever  he  does:  while  that  life  goes  on 
thwarting  his  nature.  He  will  be  nothing,  arrive  nowhere." 
She  stopped. 

"You  women  have  a  genius  for  simplifying  reality!"  Tom 
threw  this  out  in  order  to  gain  time.  He  knew  it  would  goad 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  153 

Cornelia  into  eloquence.  Any  disparaging  generalization  on 
her  sex  did  always. 

"Indeed!  Well,  you  men  have  a  genius  for  complicating 
reality  till  it's  as  false  and  absurd  as  a  wired  and  painted 
and  lace-draped  lily.  A  fine  botch  you've  made  of  your  reality. 
Every  step  of  the  world  is  so  cluttered  with  barbed-wire  rules 
and  pitfall  standards  that  only  an  acrobat  can  keep  his  feet. 
Why  don't  you  answer  me?  David  is  no  man  to  go  to  the 
top,  tricking  and  beating  every  one  else  down,  is  he?" 

"No." 

"He  is  a  simple,  gentle  boy.  That's  what  he  must  remain." 
Tom  smiled:  Cornelia  answered  his  smile.  "Fortunately,  he 
has  an  excellent  place  at  his  uncle's.  There  is  design  in  that. 
At  least,  there  is  luck.  It  means  something.  It  means  the 
pure  and  the  brave  in  Davie  may  have  'a  chance  to  grow  in 
peace.  We  need  that.  We've  enough  of  you  acrobats." 

Now  Tom  was  ready.  "David's  lovely  sense  of  right  will 
be  as  useful,  unless  it  comes  in  touch  with  the  real  world,  as  a 
violet  under  a  hedge." 

"A  violet  growing  under  a  hedge  is  sweeter  than  a  violet 
crushed  in  the  road." 

Tom  knew  he  had  talked  nonsense.  He  always  did  when 
he  would  not  face  the  sincere  part  of  him  that  wished  to  speak. 
There  was  no  time  to  lose.  He  must  tell  the  truth. 

"I  am  not  trying  to  corrupt  him: — I  like  him,  Cornelia: 
I  want  him  where  I  can  be  with  him.  So  long  as  he  stays 
in  his  ivory-tower  of  dreams  I  cannot  have  as  much  of  him 
as  I  want.  But,  Sister!  I  am  no  prince  of  darkness.  If  I 
have  plunged  into  chaos  it  is  because  that  is  where  the  money 
is.  I  am  lonely  there  as  a  good  angel  would  be  in  hell.  I 
won't  be  with  David.  I  tell  you,  one  can  be  lonely  and  un 
touched  even  at  a  Reception,  one  can  be  guileless  even  in  a 
courtroom.  I  am.  These  things  pass  over  me  like  sticks 
and  stones — smarting  my  skin.  I  do  not  want  to  change 


i54  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

David.     I  want  him  near  me.     I  want  him  to  change  me. 
Your  mistake  is  the  horror  you  have  for  surroundings  that 
you  know  nothing  about.     A  usual  result  of  ignorance,  my 
dearest.     David  will  be  as  unchanged,  certainly,  as  I." 
,     "Why  do  you  want  to  drag  him  into  your  noisy  world  ?" 

"I  can't  have  a  friend,  by  long  distance." 

"There's  something  more  in  it  than  that." 

Tom  looked,  not  to  deny  but  to  learn.  His  face  was  open, 
sincerely  in  search. 

"I  don't  understand,"  she  went  on.  "If  you  really  wanted 
him  to  change  you,  were  willing  at  all  to  be  like  him,  you'd 
meet  him  half  way.  I  have  seen  how  you  ply  him  with 
your  cynicisms,  heckle  him  with  your  invitations  to  'begin 
to  live.' " 

"If  I  met  him  half  way  I'd  come  back  with  half  a  prac 
tice." 

"Nonsense!  You  could  live  your  professional  life  with 
out  him.  Social  demands  don't  go  into  one's  intimate  hours. 
There  is  something  else.  You  really  want  to  take  David 
about  with  you — into  the  thick  of  the  scrimmage.  Every 
word  you  say  to  him  is  a  sort  of  preparation  for  his  entrance. 
Why?" 

Tom  was  silent.  He  loved  his  sister's  trenchancy  too  well 
not  to  admit  her  points.  His  doubts  brewed  energy.  He  got 
up  and  paced  the  floor  to  slough  it  off.  "I  don't  know,  I 
don't  know,"  he  repeated.  He  stopped. 
I  "Cornelia,  I  may  be  queer.  ...  I  guess  I  am  a  man  of 
action.  What  else  is  there  to  do  with  him?" 

She  looked  <at  her  brother  soberly.  She  knew  he  had 
touched  a  deep  chord. 

He  went  on:  "My  muscles  seem  to  be  very  near  my  nerves. 
My  muscles  must  move,  as  soon  as  my  nerves  feel.  Do  you 
understand?  If  I  am  glad,  I  dance.  If  I  am  hurt,  even 
now,  I  am  liable  to  cry.  You  know  that.  Don't  you  re- 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  155 

member,  Cornelia,  at  the  Farm,  when  I  had  made  a  particu 
larly  perfect  mud-pie,  how  I  brought  it  into  the  house  and 
placed  it  intact  on  your  table — even  though  it  meant  a  mess 
and  a  licking?  It  was  mine:  I  had  to  bring  it  in  to  you. 
Well:  David  can  teach  me  dreams  and  truth:  but  I've  made 
a  mud-pie  of  the  world.  He  must  share  it.  .  .  ." 

He  had  his  days  of  offensive  against  Cornelia. 

"You  want  to  make  a  child  of  him.  You  want  to  keep 
him  a  child.  Motherer!" 

"He  is  a  child." 

"Aren't  you  glad?" 

"Weil,  if  I  am?  Mayn't  one  be  happy  with  something 
that  one  finds?" 

"What  of  David?  He  can't  have  you  for  a  mother  all  his 
life.  Some  day  he  will  be  compelled  to  sally  out." 

"Sally  out  where?  He  can  have  me  always  as  much  as  he 
has  me  now.  We  don't  need  to  outgrow  our  friends?  Really, 
Tom,  you  have  a  vision  of  the  world  that  compares  with  Don 
Quixote's.  Giants  and  windmills." 

•  "Very  good,  dear  incorrigible  Motherer."  He  came  close 
and  his  arms  enlaced  her  waist:  their  cheeks  touched.  "You 
shall  always  have  your  two  boys  to  make  behave  and  keep  at 
your  breast.  So  long  as  you  live."  Cornelia  swayed  with 
him,  smiling.  "But  between  feed- times,  you  shall  let  them 
play  in  the  streets."  She  struggled  away. 
4  "You're  horrid — you're  cruel!"  There  were  tears  as  she 
pushed  him  off. 

Or  his  'days  of  strategy.  .  j  4 

"I  am  doing  my  best,"  he  said,  "to  undermine  you  with 
him.  There'll  not  be  a  shred  of  you  left  in  his  heart,  dear 
Sis,  when  I've  done  picking  you  to  pieces."  Which  was  pre 
cisely  what  he  was  about,  and  whose  telling  disarmed  Cor- 


156  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

nelia  altogether.  Surely,  if  he  were  in  truth  betraying  her, 
he  would  not  be  telling  her  about  it.  So  she  reckoned.  While 
David  argued  that  Tom's  often  disquieting  reflections  on 
Cornelia  must  in  some  deep  way  be  related  with  the  real  love  he 
knew  he  bore  her.  With  this  true,  there  could  not  be  betrayal. 

The  two  young  men  were  together  more  and  more.  They 
sat  in  Tom's  warm  room;  their  words  were  of  high  things. 
They  knew  that  these  were  things  that  were  not.  Tarn  knew 
these  things  would  never  be:  David  that  they  must.  They 
met  in  the  present  of  life  as  two  might  take  hands  down 
an  echoing  corridor:  close,  though  the  one  thought  at  the 
passage-end  was  life;  the  other  death. 

From  these  talks  came  the  sense  of  his  emptiness  to  Tom 
as  he  began  to  feed.  He  knew  it  only  in  the  yearn  he  car 
ried  with  him  more  and  more  for  somewhat  he  lacked,  in 
that  nausea  for  the  present  which  was  dooming  his  love  for 
Marcia  Duffield,  and  making  of  his  professional  affairs  a  clear, 
cold,  removed  design  that  he  learned  to  trace  with  the  tips  of 
his  calm  ringers.  The  mood  helped  him  with  Cornelia. 

He  went  to  her  morose,  and  said  kind  things — angry  things 
that  in  their  conveyance  of  his  troubled  spirit  stressed  his 
apartness  from  David. 

"I  have  been  at  it  again,  Cornelia." 

He  sat  abject  on  her  couch,  laid  his  hands  on  his  feet 
with  a  gesture  of  humility  in  which  alone  a  Hindu  could 
have  seen  the  pride.  His  eyes  dwelt  on  his  sister's  cast  of  a 
pretty  boy — a  boy  with  laughing  hair  and  a  face  that  was 
a  flower.  Tom's  lips  were  still.  It  seemed  his  eyes  that 
spoke.  He  loved  when  he  came  to  Cornelia's  place  to  cast 
off  his  coat  and  flare  his  collar  wide  from  his  tense  neck. 
The  muscles  in  his  throat  seemed  over-stressed  for  the  low 
tone  and  the  small  volume  of  his  words. 

"Clay  is  a  happy  medium,"  he  said.  "That  boy  is  nearly 
enough  your  boy  to  make  you  nearly  happy.  Clay  is  a 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  157 

possible  element  for  our  wills  to  work  in.  But  human  flesh, 
and  human  mind,  Cornelia!  They  are  weighted  with  a  past 
so  deep  and  so  remote  we  are  helpless  before  it.  I  know. 
Remember  a  joke  I  used  to  play  on  you?  The  uncut  grass 
by  the  barn:  how  I  made  you  try  to  stand  a  stick  on  end 
whose  tip  was  fastened  to  an  invisible  string?  And  whenever 
you  thought  you  had  it  balanced,  I'd  give  a  little  jerk  and  the 
thing  toppled?" 

She  stood  off  from  her  figure.  She  came  forward;  her 
finger  touched  a  plane  into  shadow;  she  stepped  away  as  if 
there  had  been  some  vital  shock  in  the  swift  contact. 

"Well?  .  .  ."  she  said,  not  letting  either  her  words,  or  his, 
eat  beneath  the  surface  of  her  mind. 

Tom  knew  he  could  spread  a  bath  of  acid  that  might  take 
its  time  in  eating  downward,  yet  leave  its  mark. 

"I  think,  Cornelia,  I  have  the  same  love  as  yourself  for 
making  forms.  But  there  is  something  perverse  and  accurst 
in  me:  something  that  keeps  me  from  spending  my  appetite 
on  some  reasonably  complaisant  substance,  like  clay  or  pig 
ment  or  even  words.  Like  you.  ...  7  must  of  course  write 
my  poems  in  human  life.  And,  Cornelia,  it  doesn't  work." 
He  paused.  "I  dined  with  your  friend,  David,  last  night." 
Again  a  silence.  "I  ended  by  running  off  to  a  trumped-up 
engagement  because  I  simply  could  not  stand  his  bland  stu 
pidity  any  longer." 

He  got  up  and  took  a  cigarette  and  lighted  it.  It  went 
out  at  once.  "I  am  a  fool,"  he  said. 

Slowly  he  began  to  tell  the  wall  against  which  he  pressed 
his  cheek,  half  plaintively,  the  misery  of  the  man  whose 
medium  is  action.  Cornelia  destroyed  her  boy's  nose.  She 
remodeled  it.  While  he  talked,  crouched  with  his  cheek  flat 
to  the  wall,  she  hummed  an  aria  from  Lohengrin — desultorily, 
false-simply,  with  evident  satisfaction  to  herself. 

"Is  there  no  mellowness  in  America?     Is  there  none  of  the 


158  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

sweetness  of  ripe  soil?  David  can  be  as  vulgar  as  Ruth's 
carpenter-lover.  Sometimes  I  wonder  is  the  chief  product  of 
American  activity  to  be  sweat.  Bah!  We  sat  there:  and 
David  lectured  me.  To  the  effect  that  truth  and  beauty  are 
antagonistic  and  we  must  side  with  truth.  When  I  asked  him 
what  was  truth,  he  answered:  'Morality  is  true/  When  I 
asked  him,  Tray  what  might  Morality  be?'  he  said:  'If  you 
don't  know,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself!  If  you 
are  going  to  be  flippant,  we'd  better  go  back  to  our  last  sub 
ject.'  And,  Lord  of  Hosts!  our  last  subject  had  been  Balzac!" 

Tom  was  gone.  Gone  so  abruptly,  the  door  stayed  a-jar 
behind  him. 

Quickly  Cornelia  threw  the  damp  cloth  over  her  model 
and  seated  herself  on  the  couch;  she  held  her  head  tight  in 
her  two  hands.  Her  mind  was  quick  with  the  sharp-eating 
lines  of  her  brother. 

"They  will  never  get  along.  Never.  Never.  They  are 
so  different:  as  different  as  .  .  ."  She  stopped:  she  said 
to  herself  that  this  was  her  brother  whom  she  loved,  and  how 
could  she  think  unkind  thoughts  of  her  brother?  It  must 
not  be.  In  the  stifled  conflict,  she  was  moved.  She  got  up, 
flung  wide  a  window. 

Night.  It  was  cold.  Gas-lamps  blinked  and  strutted 
through  the  air.  Their  lights  were  false:  they  brought  out 
only  darkness.  The  street  lay  low  and  reeled  and  swung 
away  on  either  side  like  the  deck  of  a  pitching  vessel.  The 
vessel  was  the  world.  It  crashed  through  a  sea  of  love  that 
spumed  upward  to  Cornelia's  eyes.  Her  heart's  heat  con 
densed  it;  there  were  tears.  She  had  a  sense  of  the  bleak 
urgency  of  life:  of  its  passage  and  of  its  passengers.  She  had 
a  sense  of  the  element  through  which  she  and  those  she 
loved  and  the  vessel  plunged:  how  it  was  a  sweet  element  and 
dim  and  how  hard  it  was  not  to  forget.  Surely,  all  thought 
in  her  cold  day  was  a  denial  of  the  Sea  through  which  life 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  159 

was  a  passing:  denial  of  all  save  the  vessel:  denial  of  the 
terror  of  its  movement  and  of  its  passionate  immersion.  She, 
also,  forgot.  She,  also,  was  a  coward  with  the  rest  before 
such  words  as  "religion,"  or  as  "mystic."  The  salty  tang  of 
this  Sea  beyond  her  plunging  little  world  was  in  her  eyes  and 
her  mouth:  all  her  body  wept  silently.  .  .  . 

The  cadenced  strokes  of  an  elevated  train  knocked  at  her 
mirfd.  The  truth  faded. 

Cornelia  brushed  back  her  hair  from  her  brow.  "You  are 
a  silly  woman,"  she  said  aloud.  "He  doesn't  care  for  you 
really.  You  don't  really  care  for  him.  He  will  go  away,  and 
marry.  He  lives  after  all  in  a  different  world.  Tom  and  I 
will  console  each  other." 

She  was  relieved  at  her  brother's  bitter  mood.  She  was 
weary,  as  if  she  had  been  on  a  great  journey.  She  lay  on 
her  couch  and  closed  her  eyes.  .  .  .  The  air  of  her  room  was 
thick  and  was  running  in  massive  current.  She  felt  herself 
swept  along.  The  tickings  of  the  clock  on  the  mantel  tore 
past  her  and  caught  in  her  dress  like  little  strayings  of  straw. 
The  air  surged  over  her  head;  she  saw  a  house  flung  upon  its 
current  and  dipping  across  her  window.  Where  she  was  it 
was  quiet.  Tom  came  up  to  her;  in  his  hand  was  a  gleaming 
scalpel.  "I  am  going  to  mold  David's  face,"  he  said.  She 
said:  "You  can't,  Tom,  because  he  is  done:  I  have  done  him 
already."  Cornelia  looked  at  her  model  of  a  boy:  it  was  all 
wet:  suddenly  it  sprang  and  David  threw  himself  upon  the 
ground,  and  broke.  Her  father  stood  over  her  hurting  her 
wrists.  Her  wrists  hurt  in  his  fierce  grasp:  but  she  felt  how 
her  father  had  no  hands  and  was  armless.  He  stood  towering 
beyond  her,  high,  and  hard  like  a  stick.  Cornelia  knew  that 
a  string  was  attached  to  him,  and  that  Tom  held  the  string: 
he  was  going  to  jerk  it,  and  then  her  father  was  going  to 
fall.  She  was  afraid:  her  father  was  going  to  fall  on  her  and 
she  would  be  crushed.  She  saw  that  he  was  a  child,  she  was 


160  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

full  of  pity.  Her  face  was  upturned  toward  him.  He  was 
above  her.  She  felt  she  was  going  to  kiss  him.  .  .  .  Over 
her  eyes,  there  was  David,  peering  through  turbulent  shadows 
into  her,  curious  to  see,  since  her  eyes  were  open  and  she  was 
not  asleep,  why  she  had  not  heard  him  enter.  .  .  . 

The  mood  held.  She  remained  in  that  palpitant  hinterland 
where  all  the  nerves  and  senses  of  herself  met  all  the  beings 
of  her  past.  David  impinged  sweetly  upon  this  swerving 
world.  She  lay,  scarce  breathing,  looking  at  him  with  eyes 
that  denied  the  rest  of  her. 

The  world  where  he  could  thrust  in  his  head  without  vio 
lence  receded.  It  went.  Again,  her  senses  were  enemies, 
strangers.  That  was  a  man  to  whom  she  had  not  given  her 
self.  Her  senses  stormed  her  recovering  mind.  "Why  does 
he  not  take  me  in  his  arms?"  they  pleaded.  She  was  on  her 
feet,  shutting  herself  away. 

"How  you  frightened  me,  David!  I  guess  I  fell  asleep." 
In  her  panting  words,  she  was  gone  from  him.  She  could  dare 
to  say:  "What  a  pleasant  surprise,  your  coming!  I  am  so 
glad  you  came."  She  gave  him  her  right  hand:  the  left  hand 
followed.  He  held  them  both:  she  drew  them  from  him. 

"I  thought  I  would  chance  it.  Have  you  had  dinner?  .  .  . 
What  were  you  dreaming  about,  Cornelia?" 

She  laughed,  her  low,  stalwart  laughter.  "What  would  you 
imagine?" 

"You  looked  so  strange,  so  far  away.  As  if  you  were  in 
a  spell.  Even  now,  you  are  not  quite  out  of  it." 

"I  was  in  myself,  I  guess." 

"You  won't  tell  me  what  you  dreamed?" 

She  looked  at  him. 

Big,  burly  boy,  with  his  blue  muffler  over  his  throat  and 
his  hands  hanging  so  limp  beside  him.  He  was  so  at  ease,  so 
friendly  curious,  so  cool.  While  she  was  white  inside  with 
the  need  of  telling.  It  was  impossible.  In  the  shadow,  a 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  161 

pain  viced  Cornelia's  homely  face — lent  accent  to  the  wrinkles 
already  upon  her  brow.  It  went,  leaving  its  sharp  bite. 

"How  have  you  been,  David?" 

He  might  still  ask  her,  force  her  to  tell  him.  .  .  .  David 
began  to  talk.  He  rambled  along  the  flowered  paths  of  his 
own  green  life.  He  forgot  about  her  dream,  he  forgot  about 
Cornelia.  As  her  chance  of  self-bestowal,  of  drawing  him 
back  with  her  to  the  self-land  she  had  left,  faded  before  his 
dear  indifference,  Cornelia's  hands  were  fists,  her  soul  re 
tracted  with  hurt.  ...  He  chatted. 

She  kft  him  to  put  on  her  hat.  She  saw  herself  in  the 
mirror:  plain  Cornelia,  Motherer!  who  had  found  her  boy  at 
the  age  when  boys  go  forth.  Her  mouth  affirmed  the  bitter 
resolution  that  must  make  it  hard:  her  eyes  fought  against 
their  tears — David  was  there — with  a  dry  will  that  must  dull 
and  dim  them.  The  ineffable  glow  of  confidence  and  of  the 
sense  of  being  sweet  faded  still  farther  from  her  face,  leaving 
it  older  and  less  sweet. 

So  she  returned  to  David:  they  went  out  to  dine. 


VII 


THERE  were  times  when  the  two  young  men  sat  in 
silence,  looked  at  each  other:  and  Tom  was  depressed 
and  beaten  by  the  world:  he  needed  comfort  of  his 
friend.  Then,  out  of  the  silence,  David  talked.  A  new 
way  he  had  of  bending  low  in  his  chair  with  one  leg  curled 
beneath  it,  the  other  straight  out,  while  his  arm  rested  on 
the  forth-stretched  knee  and  his  palm  turned  upward.  He 
would  talk  low  then,  try  to  give  to  Tom  a  thing  he  was  not 
sure  he  had  himself,  and  was  not  sure  but  that  Tom  had 
far  more  than  he.  He  believed  he  was  recalling  Tom  merely 
to  his  own  possession. 

"Think  of  what  you  have  done  in  your  life!  You  should 
think  of  that." 

"What  have  I  done?  What  does  it  matter  what  I  have 
done?  What  am  I?" 

"You  conquered  your  life,  you  made  a  new  one  for  your 
self." 

"David,  our  deeds  are  not  ourselves.  We  are  what  we 
are,  not  what  we  do.  Our  deeds,  if  anything,  are  what  we 
have  thrust  from  us.  If  I  have  done  much,  I  am  the  emptier." 

"Are  you  not  always  living  and  being  anew?" 

"I  am  engulfed  in  a  vicious  world  whose  viciousness  I 
know.  I  am  false,  David.  I  play  dirty  games,  dirty  tricks. 
I  do  my  share  of  the  betraying  of  the  world,  before  I  get 
my  share  of  the  thirty  pieces  of  gold.  You  do  not  know.  I 
have  open  eyes.  I  betray,  loving  loyalty:  I  do  dark  work, 
loving  the  sun." 

Tom  was  up  from  his  chair.  "Look  at  this  flat!"  He 

162 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  163 

parted  the  curtains  of  pale  lavender  that  subdued  the  room 
to  a  quiet  steadfast  chromatic  scale.  It  was  afternoon  of 
Sunday.  Swift  and  passionate  the  sun  came  in.  It  made  the 
curtains  tremorous  with  fire:  it  cast  a  radiance  upon  the 
cream-dun  walls.  It  sang  through  the  room,  with  light  feet 
tripping  the  soft  rug,  with  tawny  fingers  touching  the  books 
and  the  vases.  .  .  .  Tom  and  David  sat  within  miracle. 

Tom's  voice  was  dark  in  the  sunlight. 

"This  rare  thing,"  he  said,  "who  can  purchase  the  sun 
in  the  city?  Not  your  saint,  not  your  artist  and  lover!  Only 
creatures  like  me  who  serve  darkness.  The  Law  that  I  serve 
lives  in  shadowy  dusty  places.  Its  priests  are  men  too  crafty 
and  bent  to  be  honest  thieves.  So  I  have  the  sun.  And, 
David,  I  love  the  sun.  I  hate  what  I  must  do  to  earn  it.  I 
am  a  man  who  can  keep  his  love  only  with  gold  that  he  gains 
by  his  love's  prostitution.'7 

The  last  splendor  of  day.  The  sun's  arms  turned  upward, 
suppliant  in  death.  The  vast  Star  sank  beneath  crumble  of 
buildings.  Tom  and  David  shivered  at  the  eternal  surcease. 

"I  feel  that  the  sun  some  day  of  its  own  accord  will  go 
from  me  because  of  what  I  do  against  it.  ...  Go  at  midday, 
as  it  has  gone  just  now." 

New  shadows  rose,  they  were  silent  like  lips  that  have  just 
spoken.  The  glow  was  gone  from  the  room:  it  throbbed  still 
in  their  minds.  A  flower  faded. 

David  said:     "I  wish,  Tom,  I  could  help  you." 

Tom  did  not  smile. 

"I  feel  you  are  unjust  to  yourself.  Perhaps  unjust  to  the 
world  also.  It  can't  be  as  evil  as  you  paint  it.  As  for  you? 
I  know  how  far  you  are  from  what  you  say  of  yourself. 
You  deserve  the  sun,  Tom." 

Tom  did  not  move. 

"Just  think!    Over  there,  in  the  East — those  black  belching 


1 64  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

houses  where  you  say  they  slaughter  cattle  and  brew  hops — 
the  sun  will  rise  to-morrow.  Before  you  awake." 

"Where  do  you  get  your  idea  of  the  world?"  ...  A  sharp 
question.  It  left  David  blunt. 

"I  can't  explain.  It's  not  reasoned  out.  My  idea  of  the 
world  I  guess  is  chiefly  what  I  feel." 

"And  what  do  you  feel?  .  .  .  Your  own  past  of  feelings, 
that  is  what  you  feel.  Your  mother,  your  easy  village  life 
alone  with  your  mother.  Nine-tenths  of  it." 

"Well:   isn't  that  life  as  well  as  this?" 

"It's  dream!" 

"I  do  not  see  the  difference  very  clearly.  .  .  .  My  mother 
was:  and  my  love  for  her.  They  are  more  real  to  me  than 
the  hardness  of  the  city.  Perhaps,  Tom,  it  is  the  hardness 
of  men  which  is  dream." 

"If  your  love  and  your  life  with  your  mother  are  reality, 
lean  on  them  now." 

"I  live  with  them,  Tom." 

Tom  walked  up  and  down. 

"I  leave  you  in  your  dream,  David.  I  want  to.  But  some 
shock  of  the  outer  world  will  come  and  wake  you.  You  are 
walking  in  your  sleep.  I  want  gentle  hands  to  bring  you  to 
yourself,  at  a  safe  moment,  at  a  safe  place.  Lest  you  fall, 
David." 

David  W2S  up  also.  They  faced  each  other:  the  tall  gentle 
unkempt  boy  and  the  sharp  sure  measure  of  Tom:  the  boy 
with  bright  slow  eyes,  against  the  weary  quickness  of  the 
other. 

"I  may  be  more  right  than  you."  David's  voice  was  low. 
It  had  a  full  cadence  of  shaded  notes.  "I  don't  think  what 
we  reason  out  is  always  sure.  I  can't  explain.  I  believe  that 
just  the  same."  About  his  low  voice  the  room  darkened. 
What  was  light  and  certain  of  the  room  was  the  spirit  of  the 
friends  grappling  within  shadows. 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  165 

David  was  speaking.  "When  I  think,  Tom,  that  there  are 
millions,  hundreds  of  millions  of  men  and  women:  each  of 
them  has  feelings  deep  like  mine,  feelings  of  doubt  and  happi 
ness  and  sorrow.  It  seems  very  wonderful  to  me  that  the 
world  should  be  so  rich.  ...  I  used  to  wonder  about  God. 
It  didn't  seem  to  me  likely  that  there  could  be  one  Mind 
who  knew  all  about  the  billions  of  people  that  there  have 
ever  been,  be  interested  in  them,  know  wrhat  was  good  for 
them,  love  them.  But  I  don't  feel  l?ke  that  any  more.  This 
huge  sea  of  feelings,  made  up  of  so  many  billion  seas — well, 
that  is  true,  and  that  is  quite  as  wonderful  as  the  idea  of 
God." 

"Do  you  think  they  all  feel  as  you  do?" 

"Of  course  they  do.  I  know  that  really  I  am  no  more  than 
the  rest.  I  know  how  huge  my  own  feelings  seem  to  me." 

"But  most  of  them  are  luckless,  David,  stupid  victims," 

David  looked  wondering:  "They  strike  me  as  wonderful," 
he  said.  "Every  thing!  People  aren't  stupid  at  all.  Perhaps 
rulers  and  philosophers  are  stupid.  I  don't  know.  I  don't 
know  how  they  work.  I  know  that  no  stupid  man  could 
make  a  chair  or  plow  a  field.  And  a  woman,  Tom,  who 
can  give  birth  to  a  child  that  will  grow  up  is  not  a  stupid 
woman.  Think,  there  are  billions  of  women  who  have  done 
that!  All  these  things  seem  marvelous  to  me.  Language! 
Think!  The  little  mute  creature  who  comes  into  the  world, 
and  in  a  few  years  he  can  talk.  Is  that  stupid,  Tom?" 

David  was  near  Tom's  desk.  His  hand  lay  on  a  flat,  blank 
piece  of  paper,  and  an  inch  rule  of  thin,  varnished  wood.  He 
picked  them  up. 

"Look  at  these,  Tom.  Don't  you  think  they're  fairy-tales?" 
f  Tom  was  smiling.  But  he  was  warm.  "Compared  to  what 
some  men  have  thought  and  done,  all  men  are  stupid.  The 
first  man  who  made  paper  had  intelligence,  yes.  But  the 
dull  million  imitators?" 


1 66  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

"I  don't  know  how  to  make  paper.  It  is  all  a  mystery 
to  me." 

"You  could  buy  a  book  for  a  dollar,  and  read  a  few  hours 
and  know  all  about  it.  Is  that  achievement,  to  you?" 

David  was  silent. 

"Men  are  a  race  of  monkeys.  All  of  them,  David.  A  few 
among  them  now  and  then  who  have  the  genius  to  create. 
Freaks.  The  apes  harry  them  to  death,  then  they  follow 
them.  They  are  no  less  apes  because  they  steal  and  follow, 
Take  from  the  annals  of  man  the  deposits  of  the  lonely  ex 
ceptions  and  they'd  go  groveling  and  dumb,  as  they  did  five 
hundred  thousand  years  ago.  Do  not  admire  men,  David. 
Admire  the  wondrous  diseased  and  solitary  freak  who  at 
times  is  born  among  them,  who  rises  above  them:  who  has 
given  to  the  monkey-clan  all  the  stolen  toys  they  clutter 
their  lives  with.  Paper  seems  a  miracle  to  you.  That  is 
sheer  ignorance:  sentimentalism,  if  you  will,  which  is  the 
same.  Look  what  the  monkeys  do  with  this  paper:  how  they 
degrade  and  defile  what  the  creators  of  paper  destined  for  the 
recording  of  holy  words.  You  can  give  a  monkey  a  jewel, 
but  he'll  hide  it  in  his  refuse,  or  he'll  decorate  some  obscene 
portion  of  his  body  with  it.  Is  that  not  just  what  has  taken 
place  with  the  jewels  of  intelligence  and  genius?  The  plow 
is  a  miracle.  But  the  average  plowman  is  a  slave  who  has  de 
based  both  plow  and  soil.  What  has  he  done  with  the  sacra 
ment  of  the  harvest?  He  has  let  his  soil  that  should  be  to  him 
as  the  woman  he  loves  be  stolen  from  him:  he  works  it  for  hire: 
he  sells  its  fecundity  to  ugly  masters.  The  lot  of  women  is 
a  lovely  thing.  But  how  do  women  conceive?  What  do  they 
do  with  their  children?  You  marvel  at  language.  What  do 
you  think  of  what  men  say?  No,  David:  yours  is  an  old  sen 
timental  fault.  Through  the  ages  great  lonely  spirits  have 
worked  for  good:  they  found  the  uses  of  fire,  they  invented 
the  wheel  and  the  sail,  the  arrow  and  the  lever.  The  swarms 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  167 

from  whom  they  differed  as  gods  from  maggots  took  their 
generous  gifts  and  turned  them  against  life.  Much  of  the 
march  of  civilization  is  the  abject  record  of  just  this  bitter 
process.  The  dull  creature  who  drives  your  cab — how  is  he 
related  to  the  hero  that  tamed  the  shaggy  stallions  of  the 
Stone  Age?  or  to  the  poet  that  dreamed  The  Wheel?  Would 
the  priest  whose  ecstasy  brought  forth  fire  be  the  friend  of 
the  janitor  downstairs  who  tends  my  furnace — or  of  the  filthy 
fool  that  cooks  my  dinner?  What  relationship  beyond  that 
joining  the  parts  of  a  colossal  joke  binds  the  prophet  who 
first  pressed  papyrus  and  the  degenerate  editor  who  buys  his 
paper  by  the  ton,  dirties  it  with  his  lies  and  sells  it  to  the 
herd  for  three  cents  each  morning?  Or  binds  a  Shakespeare 
with  the  geese  that  have  been  quacking  about  him  ever  since 
he  died?  You  have  no  right  to  admire  the  debased  relics  of 
greatness — their  parodies.  To  do  so  is  to  do  precisely  the 
opposite  of  what  you  think:  to  flout  the  spirit  that  alone  de 
serves  your  wonder.  Look  what  the  world  of  men  has  done. 
They  have  so  perverted  the  gifts  of  the  great  that  no  free 
man  can  longer  partake  of  them.  Their  vileness  has  a  mo 
nopoly  in  the  fruits  of  genius." 

"I  can't  feel  that." 

Tom  was  bitterly  happy.  He  rushed  on.  "Well,  tell  me 
then:  could  your  ideal  artisan  work  in  a  factory?  He  worked 
with  his  soul  and  his  hands,  the  artisan  you  might  admire. 
It  was  his  love  that  spoke  as  he  worked;  as  he  sat  lost  in  the 
magic  of  his  tools,  his  hands  touched  the  wood  with  a  caress 
from  which  came  beauty.  Machines  and  trade-union  rules 
would  make  short  shift  of  him!  There  is  no  place  in  labor 
for  the  man  who  wants  to  love  while  he  works.  Or  your  farm 
er — your  true  breeder  of  the  earth — can  he  plow  a  hired 
field  and  then  truckle  with  parasite  middlemen  to  sell  and 
adulterate  his  fruits?  What  must  his  attitude  be  to  the  loafer 
who  'owned'  his  soil  and  to  the  loafer  who  'handled'  his 


1 68  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

products?  And  the  poet-priest  that  loved  his  paper  and  placed 
the  mystery  of  his  love  on  it — where  would  you  have  him 
write  his  love  to-day,  in  the  Dailies  or  the  Magazines?  Where 
would  you  have  him  sing  and  act  his  love,  in  vaudeville  or  the 
'legit'?" 

"I  am  not  up  to  reasoning  with  you,  Tom.  Not  yet.  But 
I  shall  be." 

"Am  I  wrong?" 

"I  am  certain  you  are  wrong.  I  feel  these  things — love  and 
brotherhood — the  many  people  somehow  creating  and  creating. 
I  am  stupid,  perhaps?" 

"You  are  not  stupid,  David." 

"Then  they  aren't  stupid  either!  Any  of  them.  They  are 
just  like  me.  They  are  not  so  very  different  from  poets  and 
inventors.  I  feel  that.  You  say  I  am  not  stupid." 

Tom  took  David's  hands.  "I  am  the  stupid  one.  That  is 
why  I  need  reason.  Dear,  confident  boy.  Please  convince 
me!" 

He  looked  hard,  almost  fiercely  into  David's  eyes:  dimly 
glowing  they  were,  or  rather  their  sentiment  than  themselves, 
in  the  shadow.  .  .  .  Tom's  hands  hardened  over  David's. 
.  .  .  David  grew  aware  of  a  faint  unease  that  was  sharp 
against  the  sweetness  of  his  mood.  Something  imperceptible 
drew  back  in  him:  blanched.  Tom  felt  the  withdrawal:  he 
dropped  David's  hands — suddenly:  almost  he  flung  them 
from  him.  He  stepped  back  and  sat  on  the  couch.  His  hands 
held  his  head  so  that  they  did  not  tremble.  His  voice  came 
vibrant  from  the  darkness. 

"Do  not  listen  to  me,  David.  Though  I  out-talk  you  a 
thousand  times,  it  is  you  who  are  right.  I  am  of  an  old 
travel-weary  race  that  has  lost  its  gods  and  that  has  found 
no  others.  I  feel  you  young  and  fresh  beside  me,  though 
in  our  years  there  is  no  great  difference.  Your  childhood  was 
not  full  of  false  beliefs.  You  are  strong  now  to  go  in  search 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  169 

of  your  own  dear  Mystery.  I  have  cast  off  false  gods.  But 
their  hands  were  about  my  heart:  and  my  heart  went  with 
them.  They  are  indeed  discarded  and  dead.  But  my  heart 
is  dead  along." 

David  came  through  the  room:  it  seemed  a  cavern  as  he 
made  these  paltry  steps  to  Tom.  He  sat  beside  him.  Still, 
he  was  ill-at-ease.  He  felt  so  suddenly  strong,  and  stronger 
than  his  friend.  While  Tom  talked,  it  had  been  hard  for  him 
to  master  the  despairing  sweep  of  impotence  over  his  body 
as  his  mind.  Now  again,  coming  of  his  strength  beside  his 
friend,  he  felt  a  chord  draw  him,  held  outside  himself;  so 
that  his  coming  was  weakness.  This  could  not  be.  Surely, 
it  was  good  to  sit  beside  his  friend  and  comfort  him,  to  be 
glad  of  the  mystic  glow  that  touched  from  their  two  bodies 
and  made  him  feel  Tom's  breathing,  made  him  feel  the  pal- 
pitance  of  Tom's  thought  like  a  butterfly  in  his  close-cupped 
hands. 

Tom  said:  "Sitting  beside  me,  you  are  sitting  beside 
nothing." 

David  was  still. 

"At  the  heart  of  me,  David,  there  is  an  empty  place.  What 
you  call  my  success  has  been  a  violence  wrenched  from  me. 
David,  have  you  ever  walked  along  a  country-road,  taken  a 
flower  in  your  hand  that  grew  beside  it — pulled,  hoping  as  you 
walked  on  to  unearth  it  by  its  roots:  and  have  you  ever  found 
in  your  hand  a  pitiful  crumpled  heap  of  petals  and  pollen, 
with  the  nude  stalk  still  fast  behind  you  in  the  ground?" 

"I  wish  I  could  reason  out  how  wrong  you  are.  I  suppose 
for  you  I  would  have  to  make  a  very  clear  argument.  My 
feeling  does  not  help  you." 

"Are  you  sure?" 

"If  I  am  downcast,  argument  to  prove  I  am  all  right  is  not 
the  thing  I  want.  I  am  different  from  you." 

"Perhaps  not  in  all  things  different,  dear  David." 


170  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

"I  know  you  are  wrong!  I  have  watched  you.  We  are 
friends,  now,  for  so  long  a  time.  I  could  have  told  you  this, 
almost  when  we  met — when  I  paddled  you  about  and  you  let 
your  wrists  play  in  the  water  and  sprinkled  me.  You  have  a 
funny  habit,  Tom,  of  hurting  yourself.  Lord  knows  why  you 
should  like  to!  You  are  not  satisfied  with  the  world  because 
you  are  so  much  better.  It  is  no  sin,  Tom,  to  live  in  the 
world  where  we  were  born.  It  is  splendid  that  you  have 
such  dreams  of  a  far  better  one.  Your  life  proves  how  true 
and  real  you  have  been — perhaps  more  so  to  Cornelia  than 
to  yourself.  I  am  sure  you  would  be  the  same  for  me." 

"I  could  do  anything  for  you." 

"I  have  nothing  with  which  to  cure  you  of  your  black 
doubts  except  a  stupid  faith  that  does  not  touch  you." 

"Davie,  it  is  the  best  in  you.  Give  me  the  best  in  you.  I 
want  nothing  better  in  all  the  world.  .  .  ." 

Silence  inclosed  them,  again. 

David  struggled  with  what  he  deemed  his  impotence.  He 
was  not  very  bright,  he  feared.  Perhaps  he  failed  to  feel  the 
stupidity  of  men  because  himself  was  stupid.  Tom  would 
not  tell  him  that.  A  wave  of  the  need  of  giving  welled  about 
him.  He  was  warm  and  relaxed  within  this  element  whose 
indeterminate  grain  moved  him  toward  Tom.  ...  He  re 
laxed.  The  same  easeless  stir,  moving  to  stiffen  him  back, 
poison  this  sweetness,  to  make  him  one  again  with  his  threat 
ened  solitude.  David  struggled  for  the  quickening  of  him 
self  in  self -bestowal.  Tom  sat  in  darkness,  bitter,  hard,  his 
will  a  clenched  fist  over  his  body.  With  a  strain  so  true  that 
the  muscles  in  his  neck  stood  out,  he  strove  to  turn  away  from 
his  loved  friend. 

But  his  hand  went  forth:  his  knotted  hand  that  seemed 
beaten  by  the  weathers  of  life  went  forth  as  on  a  journey 
hazardous  even  to  its  wisdom.  It  tremor ed  close  to  the  hand 
of  David  ...  the  warmth  of  the  young  hand  made  it  cold. 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  171 

A  sharp  shrill  voice  that  sounded  a  shriek  in  the  darkness. 

"Let's  have  a  light,"  Tom  jumped  up. 

In  the  yellow  of  the  gas,  David  sat  blinking.  Tom  was  all 
movement.  He  flung  off  his  shoes,  put  on  another  pair.  He 
changed  his  necktie.  He  hung  away  his  house  coat.  He  stood 
dressed  for  the  street. 

"I  must  be  off,"  he  declared.    "Which  way  do  you  go?" 

He  was  decreased  to  a  more  comfortable  pitch  by  this  let  of 
energy:  he  came  to  David;  with  both  hands  half-helped  him 
from  his  seat. 

They  had  been  long  in  darkness:  in  darkness  some  strange 
light  from  each  had  played  upon  them.  Now  at  the  mundane 
level  of  the  gas-lamp,  they  stood  and  needed  to  look  into 
each  other.  Their  eyes  were  venturesome,  but  their  darts  of 
laughter  proved  them  timid.  They  stirred:  their  bodies  and 
their  minds:  swerving  away.  As  if  they  dangled  loose  from 
one  another  and  were  close-fastened  only  by  their  eyes.  .  .  . 

David  walked  yearnful  through  the  City.  It  seemed  sure 
to  him  that  his  heart  was  empty.  He  cared  for  no  one.  He 
was  a  speck  caught  in  a  petty  whirl  that  gulfed  him  quite  as 
whole  as  if  an  ocean  had  risen  to  immerse  him.  Happenings 
of  the  day  and  of  all  other  days  lay  in  the  back  of  his  head 
in  a  shadowed  corner  where  he  flung  what  he  was  too  weary 
to  dispose  of:  the  corner  of  a  curiously  cluttered  room  that 
had  no  dear  thing  in  it.  So,  walking  the  wild  City,  it  was  to 
David. 

He  stood  in  a  great  Square  and  heard  New  York.  Low, 
brittleness  of  wagons,  liquid  hoof-blow  of  horses  sweet  against 
the  opaque  call  of  drivers,  beat  of  the  herds  of  men  driven  by 
iron  streets.  High,  murmur  of  lamps  wreathing  with  air  that 
dropped  like  weight  of  sadness  from  the  sky:  weary  air,  sink 
ing  to  the  City  streets  of  its  own  helplessness,  in  love  with 
the  warm  lamps  that  turned  away  from  such  anguish.  The 


172  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

buildings  hummed  their  tune  of  mastership.  But  these  were 
low:  was  low  the  plaint  of  the  air  that  was  being  breathed 
and  defiled  by  the  herds  of  men.  Under  all  was  the  City: 
above  all  was  the  City's  voice.  David  stopped  still  and  heard 
it.  A  sudden,  solitary  shriek,  coming  from  afar,  dying,  born 
anew.  .  .  .  The  City  hurried  and  did  not  hear  itself. 

David  walked  again.  The  cry  was  gone.  He  was  deaf  also: 
doubting,  forgetful. 

He  walked  to  the  house  of  the  Tibbetts,  where  he  was  due 
to  dinner.  A  warm  hall:  carpeted  stairs  leading  up  like  a 
schemer's  invitation:  balustrades  that  flourished  and  bold 
flat  pictures  that  grimaced  against  walls  with  the  effrontery  of 
servants.  The  door  closed.  David  stood  on  the  thick  carpet 
and  felt  the  harsh  mahoganous  gleam,  the  cushioned  un- 
resilience  of  chairs,  the  obtuse  blindness  of  leathered  walls. 
He  felt  this  Fay  and  her  mother,  how  they  were  hard  and 
soft:  the  black  sleek  fatness  of  Mr.  Tibbetts  moved  against 
him,  held  out  wide  hands  to  take  him  in.  A  forbidding 
brutal  gloss,  like  the  woodwork,  sheathed  a  softness,  a  give 
of  sentiment  and  thought  no  more  alive  in  these  people  than 
the  red  plush  of  the  sofa.  .  .  . 

All  of  it  was  suddenly  obscene  to  David.  He  was  in  the 
mood  he  had  found  once  in  a  house  of  prostitution:  he  had 
entered  with  a  fellow  from  the  Office  in  stern  response  to 
passion:  he  had  fled  as  one  flees  in  a  nightmare.  The  Madame 
within  the  harsh  green  satin  of  her  kimono,  which  was  a 
mold  for  flaccid  flesh:  the  hard  faces  of  the  women,  the 
hard  pastiche  of  their  gestures  upon  which  the  flabbiness  of 
their  souls  and  the  unexercised  pulp  of  their  minds  came  out, 
oozed  out — David  caught  himself.  What  nonsense  with  these 
good  friends  asking  him  questions!  What  had  that  memory 
to  do  with  this?  He  walked  deliberately  into  the  mood  of  the 
Tibbetts:  he  forgot  his  nausea,  as  he  had  forgotten  the  voice 
of  the  City. 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  173 

But  Tom  he  could  not  forget.  His  forgetting  all  else 
brought  him  inevitably  to  Tom.  He  was  warm  and  alive  with 
Tom.  He  felt  that  in  Tom's  friendship  more  than  in  all 
else — more  than  in  his  work  downtown  or  the  slow  reading 
of  good  books — he  was  growing  up.  He  glowed  with  Tom  as 
one  might  smile  at  the  accomplishment  before  one's  eyes  of  a 
good  prophecy. 

All  his  life  he  had  known  that  he  was  destined  to  become  a 
man.  An  ecstasy,  this,  of  wonderment  and  terror  which  ran, 
in  a  kaleidoscope  of  color,  back  to  his  childhood  and  to^  the 
time  when  his  little  arms  had  clasped  his  mother's  knees. 
Some  day  he  would  grow  up  and  be  a  man.  Whenever  he 
heard  these  words  inside  him,  they  came  by  his  mother's 
voice.  For  she  had  brought  them  first  like  a  fire  to  his  life. 
She  had  burned  him  with  them  as  a  reproof,  or  thrilled  him 
with  their  glow  of  destiny,  or  when  her  slow  hands  and  her 
mouth  upon  him  told  of  their  imminent  loss,  lighted  him  as 
a  sacrifice  with  their  mysterious  meaning.  For  in  these  words 
was  a  world  beyond  his  mother.  In  them,  coming  from  her 
mouth  and  from  her  breast  that  he  loved,  David  knew  the 
ruthless  rhythm  of  his  life  away  from  childhood  up  to  the 
passion  of  maturity:  away  from  his  mother  to  a  motherless 
cold  land  for  his  own  mastership.  This  destiny  could  be 
many  things.  It  was  a  twinkling  star  he  looked  at  from  his 
safe  world  and  laughed  against:  it  was  a  fairy-field  near  only 
in  his  fancy,  far  from  his  being,  dominioned  by  the  will  of 
his  young  ignorance:  it  was  a  menace  from  which  he  fled 
to  his  mother  and  toward  which  the  vigor  of  his  mother's  love 
yet  drove  him. 

He  stood  at  his  manhood's  threshold,  not  daring  to  turn  back. 
A  deep  and  cavernous  beginning.  A  passage  lost  in  shadows. 
Not  seeing  the  passage,  he  dared  to  enter.  His  mother's 
going  had  been  the  bidding  of  her  love  that  he  should  leave 
her.  But  David  was  not  alone.  A  part  of  him  was  still  the 


*74  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

short  and  sturdy  child  that  clasped  his  mother's  knees.  All 
this  was  changed,  and  all  this  was  eternal.  For  now,  again, 
David  was  not  alone.  Tom  who  had  shown  him  the  coming 
of  his  manhood  would  accompany  him  through  it.  ...  His 
friend  and  comrade:  though  David  knew  it  not,  in  a  way 
marvelously  true  and  false  the  legate  of  his  mother. 


VIII 

DAVID  lived  alone  for  a  little  more  than  a  year.  Al 
ready  in  that  year's  Spring  the  two  friends  decided  to 
find  a  place  together. 

Their  living  room  opened  from  a  narrow  hall.  Along  a 
darkness,  sidling,  their  two  bedrooms,  symbols  of  our  for 
bidding  attitude  toward  sleep  as  a  dull  thing  crowded  between 
bright  periods  of  bustle.  They  blinked,  these  rooms,  with 
their  hopeless  single  eyes  flat  on  the  gray  bricks  of  the  ad 
joining  house:  blinked  like  purblind  old  women  against  some 
thing  too  close  for  focus.  Here,  sleep  was  imprisoned,  that^ 
might  heal  men  from  the  poison  of  their  days,  but  that  men 
have  turned  into  a  merely  deeper  and  more  occult  brew  of 
their  days'  poisons. 

The  room  where  the  sun  came  was  the  room  they  thought 
they  lived  in.  Their  home,  that:  though  they  spent  far  less 
hours  there  than  in  the  blinking  sleep  rooms,  and  though,  of 
course,  the  sun  was  usually  there  when  they  were  not — they 
who  weighted  each  day  into  the  City  as  miners  go  down  shafts. 
But  it  was  good  to  know  the  sun  was  there  even  with  them 
away:  they  had  hunted  long  for  a  southward  room.  The 
resilient  Mrs.  Lario,  with  her  bare  arms  giving  to  no  touch 
and  her  smooth  throat  so  palpably  immune  from  the  gust  of 
a  man's  passion,  above  the  tight  composure  of  whose  eyes 
brooded  her  hair  like  a  black  tempest  of  contradiction,  came 
and  cleaned.  She  turned  the  mattresses:  she  sprinkled  water 
for  the  dust  of  the  crumbling  floors.  She  made  the  rooms 
gleam  with  a  moist  complacence  like  her  own  widowed  virtue. 
But  then,  beside  Mrs.  Lario,  came  the  sun:  dried  the  moisture 

175 


176  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

of  her  mop,  turned  all  this  artificed  cleanness  that  smelt  so 
of  its  triumph  over  dirt  into  a  health  that  glowed,  self-sus- 
tainedly,  without  a  hint  of  being  mere  reform.  The  sun  came 
and  balanced  Mrs.  Lario;  and  made  her  possible.  So  that 
when  Tom  and  David  were  up,  ruffled  and  wearied,  through 
their  shafts  at  night,  they  felt  that  their  home  had  been  not 
cleaned  alone  but  redeemed  also.  And  if  there  was  a  flavor  of 
must  in  the  tidied  bedrooms,  the  rococo  sitting  of  the  pillow- 
shams,  the  somewhat  chromo-pattemed  regularity  of  things  left 
on  their  bureau,  there  was  as  well  good  air,  still  a-thrill  with 
the  sun's  last  coming.  On  Sundays,  they  greeted  the  sun  as 
one  they  knew,  who  knew  their  home  better  than  they:  greeted 
him  a  bit  like  a  familiar  god  with  his  long  frank  strides,  shat 
tering  their  windows. 

David  was  making  a  success  in  his  uncle's  business.  He 
had  at  last  achieved  a  salary  determined  rather  by  his  place 
in  the  office  than  his  relation  with  its  head.  Mr.  Deane's 
theory  had  unconsciously-  been  one  of  compensation.  He 
balanced  his  knowledge  of  the  boy's  advantage  by  miserable 
pay.  This  enabled  him  quite  honestly  to  say:  "David  gets 
no  more  than  any  other  beginner."  An  easy  way  of  feeling 
just.  Now  David  was  beginning  to  lead  the  life  of  a  young 
bachelor  in  the  City.  He  had  outgrown  his  little  Eastside 
room:  he  was  after  all  a  representative  of  the  Deanes.  If 
he  went  to  the  theater,  it  was  not  right  that  he  should  sit  in 
the  gallery  like  a  clerk.  If  he  went  hunting  for  rooms  with 
this  smart  chap  Rennard,  he  must  not,  by  an  admission  of 
the  low  price  he  could  afford  to  pay,  reflect  on  the  House  of 
Deane.  Mr.  Deane  was  a  little  on  his  mettle  with  his  nephew 
as  most  men  with  their  sons.  He  was  approaching  the  time  of 
vicarious  satisfaction.  He  made  David  assistant  to  the  Credit 
Department,  and  gave  him  a  good  salary. 

David  knew  the  nepotic  alloy  in  his  good  fortune.  It  did 
not  trouble  him.  He  thought,  somehow,  he  deserved  it.  He 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  177 

recalled  vaguely  an  old  remark  of  Tom's  about  another  mat 
ter.  "Men  who  get  what  they  deserve  always  do  so,  you 
will  find,  for  inappropriate  reasons."  David  was  letting  the 
sweet  illogic  of  America  come  in^  on  him.  He  was  lost  in 
wonder  at  the  perfect  and  complex  weave  of  manifest  oc 
currence  which  armored  the  reality,  latent  and  different,  be 
neath.  The  weave  was  one  of  grace,  good  will  and  beauty.  It 
was  in  contradiction  to  the  moving  nakedness  he  felt  fatefully 
aswing  below  his  life  and  the  whole  City.  He  was  after  all 
in  much  a  child:  one  who  wanted  the  world  to  be  good  to 
him:  to  whom  the  real  was  the  most  splendid  of  fairy-tales. 
He  fitted  into  this  social  structure  so  close  akin  to  the  land 
where  hags  turn  into  princesses  and  pumpkins  become  coaches. 
He  was  that  sort:  the  sort  who  wanders  blithely  through  an 
enchanted  forest  where  great  black  trunks  of  trees  stand  undei* 
a  green  sea  of  murmur  like  protective  stanchions  and  who  picks 
up  an  acorn,  finds  it  to  be  a  golden  apple,  eats  it  with  neither 
indigestion  nor  surprise.  The  whirling  petulance  of  American 
life,  its  oneness  with  the  tempo  and  technique  of  the  dream, 
was  very  near  and  very  sweet  to  David. 

There  was  then  a  true  immersement  of  David  in  this  world. 
And  in  this  fact  a  danger.  Nothing  is  so  rebellious  as  reality. 
No  man  who  does  not  first  move  with  the  world  can  change 
it.  If  the  deep  mute  sense  of  life  in  David  pushed  ever  up 
ward  in  revolt,  that  revolt  would  be  the  mere  fused  head  of 
all  his  being:  of  the  world's:  it  would  find  its  articulated 
deed.  He  would  go  farther,  infinitely,  in  rebellion,  than  the 
rebellious  Tom  whose  mental  area  of  understanding  kept  him 
in  a  sort  of  passionate  inertness.  The  emotions  of  Tom  Ren- 
nard  were  conservative:  the  part  of  him  that  loved  loved  what 
was  still  and  plumbed — and  there;  the  manifest  world  he 
found  rather  than  its  latency  of  change.  Only  his  mind 
ventured  ahead  into  potential  realms.  His  mind  was  much 


178  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

like  a  courier  at  work  in  advance  to  fit  and  to  pare  down 
conditions  for  the  advent  of  his  master. 

So  Tom  felt  a  hazard  in  his  friend.  He  wished  to  live  in 
the  world  that  he  found.  He  wished  to  live  with  the  friend 
that  he  had  found.  It  was  needful,  therefore,  that  his  friend 
should  live  there  also:  that  he  should  change  just  in  so  far  as* 
to  fit  Tom's  world,  yet  not  so  greatly  change  as  to  betno 
longer  David.  Tom  realized  that  the  world's  acceptance  he 
desired  in  David,  and  its  possession  he  feared,  were  very 
close  to  one  another.  He  looked  at  his  friend,  and  won* 
dered.  .  .  . 

David  lay  back  in  his  rocker,  with  his  legs  out  straight  and 
the  mist  of  his  pipe  rising  above  his  upturned  head.  He  was 
comfortable:  above  his  waist  his  body  huddled  in  a  condition 
of  collapse  that  made  the  rigid  straightness  of  his  legs  and  of 
"his  arms  falling  down  by  his  side  a  comical  diversion.  Tom 
looked  at  him  from  his  rush  seat  chair,  direct  and  simple. 
He  sat  at  ease,  straight.  He  picked  a  paper  from  the  floor, 
but  below  his  waist  his  posture  was  unaltered.  His  head 
moved  on  his  neck  like  a  hinge:  his  torso  moved  on  his  hips 
like  a  hinge.  There  was  David  reaching  for  a  match:  his 
legs  shifting,  his  chin  dropping  upon  his  chest. 

-David's  arms  went  out,  and  he  yawned.  His  body  was 
rigid.  It  seemed  to  press  out  the  energy  of  words:  "Oh — 
Of  I  am  sleepy." 

Tom  laughed.  He  had  come  in  far  later — from  a  dance. 
He  had  been  up  an  hour  earlier.  "Why  don't  you  lie  down, 
then?" 

David's  eyes  seemed  to  exercise  command  over  his  sluggish 
state.  They  thought  the  idea  a  good  one.  The  big  body 
lifted  heavily  from  the  chair,  went  wide  and  down  to  the 
floor.  David  lay  on  his  back.  Tom  looked  at  him.  He  could 
have  raised  his  foot  and  placed  it  on  David's  stomach.  One 
hand,  palm  upward,  slumbered  directly  beside  Tom's  chair. 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  179 

Tom  could  have  stepped  on  it.  The  temptation  ran  humor 
ously  through  him. 

"Why  you  should  be  sleepy,  my  dear  man!  I'll  bet  you 
slept  ten  hours." 

"Well/'  after  a  pause,  "it's  Sunday.'7 

Tom  laughed  again.     "You're  still  a  lazy  country  lout." 

David  snorted  and  smiled.  He  rolled  his  generous  round 
head  away  from  Tom  and  closed  his  eyes.  Since  his  eyes 
alone  had  borne  the  quality  of  resistance  that  was  his  space 
in  the  world,  David  lay  prone  and  altogether  passive:  he 
was  a  little  like  a  flame  that  has  been  extinguished. 

Tom  began  to  contemplate  his  friend.  David  breathed 
deep  and  low.  Looking  and  pondering,  Tom  came  to  breathe 
in  unison.  His  shorter,  tighter  body  made  this  anomalous. 
They  breathed  together.  But  David  was  sleeping.  Tom's 
breath  brought  him  discomfort.  A  tithe  of  it  he  discharged  by 
stirring  his  foot  to  within  an  inch  of  David's  hand.  It  stayed 
there.  He  was  forward  in  his  seat.  His  gaze  went  forward 
fixed  on  some  vague  moving  object  that  swung  in  a  pure 
parabola  away.  All  of  him  followed. 

They  had  been  together  a  month.  There  was  David's  face 
fallen  away  on  its  side.  Tom  could  see  the  slight  strained 
tendons  of  his  neck.  His  sleepy  hair  was  a  mood  apart  from 
the  floor  it  touched  like  a  mist  thrown  from  the  alert  earth 
in  the  morning.  His  pipe  had  slipped  and  cast  its  ashes. 
Tom  wondered  if  he  was  closer  to  his  friend  after  a  month, 
and  how  far  closer  he  could  grow.  This  the  question  he  fol 
lowed.  As  if  in  search  of  it,  he  leaned  agilely  forward,  im 
mersed,  and  picked  up  the  pipe  next  to  David's  hand.  He 
was  again  erect  in  his  chair.  He  held  the  pipe  before  him. 
Not  seeing  it.  He  was  very  awake  thinking.  Suddenly  he 
looked  at  his  hands,  amazed.  They  were  empty.  The  pipe 
was  in  his  mouth.  On  his  face  came  an  expression  of  motion, 
as  if  he  wanted  to  get  away.  He  thrust  the  pipe  back  of 


i8o  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

him,  on  the  tabaret.  Again,  rest  came  to  his  features.^  They 
no  longer  strained  in  the  symbol  of  the  need  to  move.  He 
was  in  contemplation.  His  lips  parted  and  pursed  at  a 
faster  tempo  than  his  breathing.  His  eyes  hardened.  He 
took  a  long  draught  of  air  as  if  his  sluggish  breathing  had 
half  stifled  him.  Once  more  he  breathed  at  his  wonted 
measure. 

He  looked  down  at  David,  for  the  first  time  naturally: 
as  if  David  were  this  expected  object  at  his  feet,  and  not 
some  threshold  beyond  them.  .  .  .  They  had  been  after  all 
a  mere  month  together.  Why  was  he  counting  time  with 
David,  when  elsewise  he  was  glad  to  take  his  days  in  gross, 
and  the  thought  of  the  years  like  steps  of  a  painful  stairway 
to  be  mounted  toward  the  flat  respite  of  death?  In  this 
lingering  with  David  and  his  hurry  elsewhere,  there  was  a  dis 
cord,  a  whirling  that  made  him  dizzy.  One  part  of  him  moved 
faster  than  the  rest.  He  turned  and  turned  around.  Tom's 
eyes  were  seeking  again.  He  must  hold  an  to  something  to 
stop  this  spinning.  His  jaw  dropped  an  instant,  before  he 
had  caught  himself  up.  There  were  his  hands  once  more 
athwart  his  chest:  in  them  David's  pipe.  Tom  jumped  from 
his  chair.  Carefully,  however:  David  was  sound  asleep. 

It  was  a  day  of  clouds  low-scudding  over  the  City. 

The  City  crouched  hostile  and  sharp,  as  if  it  felt  the  uni 
verse  its  foe.  The  City  of  men.  With  its  roofs  like  an  up 
standing  fur,  it  lay  there,  a  cattish  monster.  The  wind 
boomed  afar,  plunged  near,  whistled  and  shook  the  win 
dows  and  was  off  screaming  with  fright  at  its  courage.  The 
City  was  tense  and  cold  under  its  houses.  A  lighter  shadow 
cut  down  from  the  retreated  pall  of  the  skies.  The  sun  was 
up  there  somewhere.  The  shadow  mushroomed  forth,  losing 
its  lightness,  swelling  with  relief  into  the  wider  darkness: 
disappeared.  The  City  breathed  again.  Another  shaft  of 
light,  of  greater  vibrance,  lanced  it,  made  it  quiver,  faded 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  181 

once  more.  These  alternations  were  a  rhythm,  like  breath, 
on  the  City.  And  in  the  room,  where  Tom  stood  looking  out 
and  David  slumbered,  these  rhythms  were  compressed  and 
sharpened.  The  swathes  of  lighter  shadows — strugglings  of 
the  sun — brought  unrest.  The  City  was  easier  in  the  greater 
gloom.  Was  the  sun  what  it  feared?  The  gloom  was  a  cloak, 
hiding  the  foe.  When  it  parted  a  sword  flashed.  When  it 
parted,  the  City  trembled. 

Tom  felt  the  acerb  coldness  of  this  maze  of  stone  and  brick. 
A  testaceous  monster  crouched  beside  the  hidden  Hudson. 
It  lost  its  unity:  it  broke  into  parts.  The  City  became  a 
swim  of  brittle  points,  a  sea  and  a  foam  of  iron.  Tom  won 
dered  how  the  soft  breasts  of  the  dwellers  had  conceived  their 
City  that  was  more  hard  and  hostile  than  the  whipped 
heavens.  He  saw  them  under  the  mountains  of  their  handi 
craft  like  shell-less  creatures  huddled  in  a  mountain  of  waves. 

He  was  back  from  this  fury  to  his  chair.  There  slept  his 
friend.  He  was  aware  of  David  gently  asleep  and  of  the 
surge  of  the  City  and  of  the  skies  a  humor  of  hostile  motion. 
He  was  aware  of  all  this  suddenly  at  once.  The  contrast  was 
like  swift  heat  on  the  smooth  surface  of  his  consciousness.  It 
cracked.  In  the  fissures  light  to  see  by.  .  .  . 

The  deposits  of  his  last  summer.  He  had  gone  away,  for  his 
two  weeks,  alone.  This  was  his  custom,  and  the  one  who 
might  have  led  him  to  disregard  it  was  unwilling.  David 
had  earned  the  respect  of  Mr.  Deane  by  declining  to  take  a 
vacation.  He  might  have  gone,  as  the  year  before,  to  spend 
it  in  the  mountains  with  his  uncle's  family.  He  had  no 
stomach  to.  He  was  very  far  from  Lois.  He  believed  she 
was  engaged,  though  he  had  purposely  avoided  the  con 
fidence  she  almost  forced  him  to  ask. 

"You  don't  seem  to  want  to  know  anything  about  me, 
David." 

"What  is  there  to  know?" 


182  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

"There  might  be  many  things.  Why  don't  you  ask?  Then 
you  may  find  out.'7 

"What  could  there  happen  to  you?" 

"Oh,  indeed,  sir!  So  nothing  could  happen  to  me  to 
interest  you!" 

David  thought  she  was  inviting  him  to  bare  his  breast  for 
her  knife-thrust.  He  was  long  past  the  desire  of  sensation 
from  Lois  at  the  expense  of  pain.  He  looked  dull.  And  Lois 
stamped  her  feet.  "Then  I  shan't  tell  you.  Now!" 

Tom  had  suggested  a  plan.  But  he  was  half-hearted 
about  it.  He  did  not  want  to  go  to  the  old  place  with  his 
friend.  He  did  not  want  to  go  with  him  elsewhere.  He  went 
off  alone.  He  selected  the  seashore.  There  seemed  nothing 
strange  in  this.  He  thought  it  was  the  turn  of  the  sea.  Here 
too  he  did  not  altogether  understand.  He  was  afraid  to  tempt 
the  old  place  with  David.  Surely  he  would  not  enter  it  alone. 

He  went  through  a  little  huddled  city,  sweating  and  ple 
thoric  with  high-colored  houses  and  swift  dilapidations:  a 
city  with  the  face  of  a  slovenly  fishwife,  peeled  by  the  sum 
mer  sun  and  cut  by  the  winter  winds. 

Beyond  it  the  beach:  a  great  golden  girdle  beneath  the 
quiet  bosom  of  the  sea.  The  ocean  breathed  gently  there. 
It  rose*  and  fell  passionless  and  sweet,  touching  the  word  of 
men  with  virginal  disdain.  The  sun  smiled  aslant,  as  if  half 
turned  away  out  of  compassion»for  the  feebleness  of  men.  But 
despite  its  clemency,  the  human  swarm  was  like  a  pullulant 
emanation  in  a  rich  yeasty  substance.  Women  and  children 
and  men  shifted  like  black  maggots  in  the  luxuriance  of 
summer. 

The  sea  rose  from  the  night  as  a  jewel  glows  and  burns 
beyond  itself.  The  sun  swung  into*  the  sky  and  made  of  it 
a  luminous  flood  that  poured  gold  on  the  beach,  splintered 
mazes  of  sapphire,  emerald,  bronze  on  the  breasting  waters. 
Yet  of  itself  the  sky  was  no  color  and  no  thing.  The  sun 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  183 

fevered  and  sank  away,  leaving  the  sky  a-tremble  with  its 
passion.  The  sky  lingered,  lost  in  the  haze  of  the  sun's  mys 
tery,  given  to  the  rapture  of  remembrance  that  is  night. 

Within  this  stillness  the  broken  hurry  of  people.  Men  and 
women  were  a  low  spawn  flecking  and1  feeding  on  the  universal 
fragrance.  Tom  walked  among  them  and  tried  to  amuse  him 
self.  Never  had  human  life  been  so  distasteful  to  him,  so 
anomalous. 

He  rose  early  to  escape  it.  A  line  of  boarding  houses  and 
hotels  lay  along  the  sand.  A  motley  strewing.  High  bar 
racks  with  false  Colonial  fronts  and  rococo  pillars  scarfing 
their  dismal  heights.  Smug  cottages  burdened  with  great 
names:  Sea-Crest,  Manning  Arms,  The  Breakers.  Sprawling, 
winging  frames  with  turrets  that  twirled  and  were  picked  out 
in  colored  glass.  ...  On  the  beach,  when  Tom  set  out,  a 
sparse  sprinkling  of  children.  Mothers  gossiped  low  in  the 
background  and  a  few  bathers,  loosed  from  the  conventional 
bonds  by  the  tart  spell  of  the  water,  screamed,  laughed,  ges 
ticulated,  bounded.  Tom  left  them  behind.  The  sea  combed 
back  and  the  dwellings  of  men  were  lost.  All  about,  flatness. 
The  grass  ran  silver  away  across  salt  meadows  that  were 
ruddy  in  sun. 

The  sea  was  broken  here.  It  lapped  idle,  and  was  green 
and  halted  by  the  blue  purl  of  the  river  that  came  out  to  be 
lost  in  the  sea's  freedom.  The  bay  was  quieter  than  the 
scudding  grass  that  marged  it.  There  was  a  rocking  stillness 
everywhere  against  which  the  earnest  and  sharp  sally  of  the 
pipers  in  the  sea-weed  was  a  dissonant  shred.  Here  Tom 
threw  himself  down  and  took  the  pungent  air  into  his  eyes 
and  mouth  and  let  it  moisten  the  strain  of  his  body.  He 
was  immersed  in  the  sweet  summer. 

A  mood  grew  on  him.  He  learned  of  a  mistake  that  he 
had  made.  Upon  the  contrast  and  the  stillness  of  this  place 
came  something  from  without  and  filled  it  and  made  its  song. 


184  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

He  found  that  he  was  longing  for  the  comradeship  of  David. 

Sitting  idle  and  full  of  the  sap  of  the  summer,  he  found 
that  the  part  of  him  which  warmed  him  was  straining  out 
ward,  toward  a  vague  thing  indeed — since  he  wanted  no 
specific  thing  of  David — but  with  a  pull  that  had  no  vague 
ness.  He  found  himself  unable  to  partake  of  the  gentle  world 
he  was  in.  He  found  himself  tangenting  from  it,  making  of 
his  wish  a  rod  to  vault  him  back  into  the  burning  City.  He 
sat  musing,  half  asleep,  without  sense  of  time.  He  dug  with 
his  fingers  in  the  sand.  He  watched  a  bug  voyage  from  spot 
to  spot  with  a  rapt  floating  interest.  He  tried  to  enjoy  a 
cigarette,  with  a  sense  telling  him  that  the  air  had  a  sweeter 
perfume,  could  he  but  swing  himself  to  know  it.  Unease 
was  on  him.  He  consulted  his  watch  and  its  denotation  of 
the  hours  was  like  news  from  a  far  country.  Impulse  to  move 
was  balked  by  lack  of  desire  to  go.  He  stayed,  balanced, 
bored,  strangely  exhausted  with  these  hours  of  indolence,  glad 
of  the  excuse  of  hunger  to  make  him  move. 

The  beach  was  bedlam.  He  went  through  the  throngs,  as 
if  he  were  wading  a  morass. 

Only  the  buffet  of  the  waves  when  he  swam  beyond  the 
breakers  gave  him  a  resistance  where  he  could  dwell  with  a 
certain  comfort.  But  he  could  not  bathe  all  day.  He  went  in 
to  dinner.  A  sort  of  immersement  in  a  black  pot  where  food 
was.  Clatter  of  dishes,  hot  stickiness  of  human  motion,  flies 
stuck  on  paper.  It  was  hard  to  part  the  tasteless  substance 
of  his  neighbors  from  the  sodden  stuff  he  prodded  down  his 
throat. 

He  escaped  to  the  sea.  While  the  populace  digested,  he 
could  be  alone  with  it.  It  beat  in  monotone  upon  his  world: 
it  flayed  it.  The  sea  lay  there  cruelly  content,  droning  its 
repetitious  chant.  Until  the  endless  song  mounted,  terraced, 
burst  in  his  ears  like  a  vast  shout  of  conquest.  Tom  felt  an 
invasion.  His  small  body  was  being  swept  by  a  terrene 


; 


THE  DARK  MOTHER1  185 

tnonster.  The  sea's  laborious  approach  agauist  his  nerves 
was  no  relief  from  the  crepitous  guerilla  of  the  wromen,  chil 
dren,  men,  beating  their  individual  sticks  and  stones  upon 
him.  Tom  went  back  to  the  deserted  bay  where  the  sea 
was  less  the  sea.  And,  gazing  at  the  watery  world,  he  won 
dered  by  what  spell  the  ocean  had  even  been  a  balm  to  h  im: 
by  what  strength  he  had  dared  love  it. 

He  said  aloud  to  himself  in  the  silence:  "Well,  leave  he^e. 
I  give  you  permission.  Go  somewhere  else.  If  this  bores 
you."  He  had  no  answer.  He  did  not  wish  to  go  som^- 
wheres  else.  He  wished  to  go  back. 

He  had  always  loved  this  being  close  among  the  pleasure- 
toiling  people.  He  had  looked  forward  to  the  nights.  The 
open  theater,  garlanded  in  paper  lanterns,  the  carrousel  with 
its  comical  rugose  rounds  of  music,  the  dance-halls  by  the 
sea  where  the  salt  air  swooned  in  the  invasion  of  shuffled 
feet,  of  perfume,  of  pop  and  beer.  The  silent  stretches  away 
from  the  lights  where  he  could  see  the  couples  under  the  moon 
discovering  love,  finding  for  once  glad  uses  for  their  bodies. 
All  this  Tom  loved,  and  for  it  had  come.  .  .  .  There  was  the 
solemn  jay  decked  in  white  duck  trousers  who  walked  as 
close  as  he  dared  to  the  girl  in  frills,  with  her  face  simpering 
,  down  toward  her  languid  feet.  [How  far  her  puff  sleeves  kept 
[him  off,  how  dangerous  a  sealing  of  adventure  to  take  her 
hands!  And  her  lips?  Could  he  have  them  without  the  sea 
'rocking  upon  them  and  wiping  out  the  future?]  Tom  would 
dance  with  the  prettiest  girl  he  could  find — then  with  the 
ugliest:  and  chuckle  as  he  discovered  the  law  of  compensa 
tion  unobserved.  "She  has  less  looks,  no  more  sense."  He 
would  be  hero  to  a  gang  of  boys,  bitying  them  soda  and  ice 
cream:  confidant  of  the  pendulous  matron  in  virginal  crino- 
jlinc-s  who  believed  him  when  he  said  that  he  was  sure  she 
ccr..'cl  dance:  you  must  not  let  your  daughters  bully  you, 
madam,  into  being  old!  ...  Then  aloof,  watching  the  prides, 


!86  TH7^  DARK  MOTHER 

the  passions,  tb'  ;  innumerable  nonsenses  collect,  become  a 
single  human  *•  Clutter,  astir  in  a  flare  of  lights,  a  ribboning  of 
banal  music  ,  a  haze  of  sweaty  odors.  .  .  .  Once  more  about 
him  silence  and  at  his  feet  a  Sea — musing  in  its  moveless 
might  nfj  if  it  were  all  the  heavens,  all  the  stars  made  through 
some  portent  palpable  to  him.  It  lay  there  aloof  like  truth. 
And  b^e  its  master  since  it  lay  also  in  his  brain.  The  crowds 
he  had  left  were  a  sputter  of  sand  fallen  on  the  sea  and  gone. 

So,  once.  Now  nothing  of  all  this.  The  world  had  fooled 
him.  Ashes  were  in  his  mind.  Yet  he  could  not  leave  his 
mind  and  the  world.  Ten  days  Tom  moved  in  this  numbj 
ness.  .  .  . 

Sudden,  he  went  to  the  station,  and  sent  a  wire  to  David, 
returned  to  his  hotel,  paid  his  bill.  The  message  was: 

"I  am  coming  home.  Save  supper  for  me.  Will  call  for 
you." 

...  He  had  a  sense  that  if  he  visited  the  bay  it  would  be 
sweet  and  fertile  like  a  young  woman  who  is  warm  with  the 
breathing  of  her  body:  that  if  he  had  stayed  to  dinner  at  the 
hotel,  the  women's  chatter  would  amuse  him,  the  naughtiness 
of  the  children  under  the  frowns  of  their  mothers  shine  like 
snatches  of  song.  For  he  was  on  the  train.  .  .  . 

A  heavy  heated  day  met  him  in  the  City:  one  of  those 
laden  evenings  when  the  air  has  lost  its  resilience  to  throw  off 
the  fetid  waste  poured  by  the  turmoil  of  life.  All  that  the 
millions,  in  grips  with  the  materials  of  work,  have  thrown 
impure  into  the  air  remained  for  the  millions  to  breathe. 

But  Tom  was  in  high  spirits.  His  ferry  had  moored  him 
on  the  west  edge  of  Manhattan  an  hour  before  the  time  to 
dine.  In  this  coincidence  of  his  train — the  one  good  train  to 
catch  after  his  sudden  resolution — he  read  a  happy  omen.  He 
would  have  time  to  wash  at  a  hotel.  He  had  no  fears  because 
of  the  short  notice  of  his  message.  David  had  few  engage- 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  4       187 

merits  beyond  occasional  visits  to  his  family,  very  few  indeed 
whose  urgency  would  prevail  against  the  urgency  of  Tom's 
wire. 

The  thought  of  that  urgency.  Why  was  he  so  pressed  to  see 
his  friend?  He  felt  no  need  of  explaining  to  himself.  That 
part  of  him  which  appraised  explanations  seemed  content 
without  one — a  strange  thing  in  Tom — seemed  willing  to  nod, 
to  say:  "Yes.  No  need  of  further  words.  You  wanted  to 
see  him."  But  what  of  the  explanation  to  make  to  David? 
He  might  think  the  lack  of  one  peculiar?  .  .  .  Something  just 
above  his  ears,  in  the  back  of  his  head,  cracked  with  a  swift 
report  like  a  cleavage  in  deep  ice.  It  was  an  instant:  it  had 
not  hurt.  During  it,  this  thought,  marvelously  elaborate 
and  clear,  touched  light:  he  would  tell  the  truth:  he  would 
take  David  to  their  favorite  cafe — down  steps  on  Sixth  Ave 
nue  under  the  booming  elevated  structure — where  his  pro 
prietary  waiter,  Charles,  designed  him  dinners,  according  to 
the  weather,  according  to  the  look  in  his  face,  without  ques 
tions.  There  they  would  sit — he  would  say:  "I  missed  you, 
David.  My  vacation  was  a  failure  without  you.  I  had  to 
come  back  to  New  York  to  see  you."  Simple  enough,  and 
honest.  Yet  it  had  cleaved  some  icy  armor  in  his  brain  in 
order  to  get  free.  David  would  blush.  He  was  so  droll,  so 
like  a  girl  with  his  ready  blushing.  And  what  would  David 
answer?  Tom  walked  along  with  his  elastic  bound.  He  was 
a  little  like  a  pony  pacer — a  svelte  small  one.  David  had 
had  the  simile.  But  above  the  sharpness  of  his  steps,  he 
swam  in  a  mist  of  fantasy.  He  believed  that  his  mind  would 
compress  this  mist,  make  it  clear  solid  fact.  His  mind  seemed 
averse — indolent.  Perhaps  after  all,  it  could  not.  An  illu 
sion  of  the  mist  perhaps  that  it  had  the  substance  of  the 
fact-to-be.  Tom  saved  himself  from  this  conclusion:  "Don't 
live  it  now.  .  .  .  There'll  be  nothing  left  after  you've  done 
imagining."  A  faint  reverberance  set  in:  reaction.  "Why 


i88  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

should  I  not  tell  him  I  was  anxious  to  see  him?  Truth  is 
essential  with  a  boy  like  David.  I  can't  give  him  any  other 
reason."  The  steps  of  David's  lodging  house  were  a  bit  steep. 

He  found  himself  outside  the  door.  He  was  afraid  to  open. 
He  knocked.  He  did  not  think  it  right  to  be  so  ceremonious. 
He  entered. 

David  was  there.  Tom  went  forward  with  the  slain  feel 
ings  the  occasion  had  given  birth  to.  What  he  saw  was  a 
blight  that  had  drawn  the  life  of  his  coming.  What  re 
mained,  talking,  moving,  was  a  ghost.  David  was  not  alone. 
With  him  some  friend. 

"Farmer  was  alone.  I  happened  to  meet  him  coming  up.  I 
knew  you  would  not  mind,  Tom,  if  he  came  along." 

"Of  course — of  course  not." 

Tom  knew  that  soon  he  would  understand.  In  order  to  be 
polite,  he  had  better  delay  the  moment.  Perhaps,  he  could 
put  it  off  till  he  was  rid  of  these  two  fellows. 

"Where  shall  we  go.  I'm  hungry."  David  seemed  satisfied. 
He  had  worried  a  little  perhaps?  David  put  on  his  straw  hat 
with  a  despicable  slap  of  his  palm. 

"Where  you  say.     It  makes  no  difference  to  me." 

Their  favorite  cafe — and  Charles?  David  suggested.  Tom 
nodded. 

It  was  a  hilarious  dinner.  Actually.  Tom  helped  it.  The 
Farmer  person  had  an  aptitude  for  puns.  He  told  them  with 
a  Carolina  accent.  Tom  knew  of  him,  that  he  wore  a  straggly 
ribbon  for  a  tie — gray  and  brown — tucked  like  a  shoe-string 
into  the  yellow  edge  of  his  collar.  He  knew  also  that  the 
collar  button  showed — it  was  black  bone — and  an  adam's- 
apple:  that  the  shirt  bulged  and  was  half  stiff,  and  wrinkled. 
Tom  knew  no  more  because  his  eyes  rose  no  higher  and  no 
lower.  They  remained  at  their  horizontal  tension. 

He  packed  them  off  to  an  extravaganza.  No,  he  could  not 
join  them.  He  simply  could  not.  They  would  enjoy  it  with- 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  189 

out  him.  One  did  not  go  to  the  theater  for  company — as  one 
went  to  dinner.  They  were  gone  at  last. 

Tom  was  home  like  a  spent  arrow.  Down  the  turbulent 
avenue  with  the  trains  clamoring  overhead.  He  took  off  his 
clothes.  He  was  exhausted,  as  if  he  had  run  that  day,  not 
been  carried,  to  New  York.  In  a  moment,  he  slept. 

He  woke  early  and  lay  in  his  bed  and  understood. 

David  did  not  know  it:  he  had  done  this  thing  with  a 
knowledge  surer  than  knowing.  That  much  was  clear.  If 
David  had  had  a  doubt  as  to  the  true  trivial  purpose  of  Tom's 
telegram,  if  he  had  so  much  as  said:  "There  may  be  some 
thing  important"  he  must  have  given  Tom  the  chance  to  tell 
him.  It  was  plain,  David  had  sensed  the  lack  of  a  particular 
business,  guessed  the  purely  social  nature  of  Tom's  wish: 
keen  willing,  without  knowing,  to  avoid  it. 

Was  it  stupidity?  Tom  thought  not.  The  stupid  person 
would  not  have  understood  so  much.  He  would  have  said: 
"There  may  be  something  important."  Or,  feeling  the  true 
inwardness  of  Tom's  importunity,  he  must  have  been  passive 
before  it.  Beneath  David's  ingenuous  behavior,  there  worked 
a  deliberate  negation.  That  much  seemed  certain.  Part  of  his 
will's  function  it  had  been  to  hide  from  David  what  it  was  all 
about,  since  his  will  was  willing  to  cause  Tom's  distress,  and 
David  conscious  would  not  have  been  willing  to  cause  it. 
David's  innocence  a  cloak  over  himself.  But  the  detail  of  his 
meeting  Farmer?  Tom  believed  that  in  the  wide  world  of 
occurrence  the  searching  will  could  always  find  material  for 
its  act. 

The  important  thing  now  was  to  slur  over  the  affair.  A  great 
hurt,  an  inexplicable  wound:  a  pin  prick  that  somehow  had 
touched  his  heart — one  could  not  talk  of  such  improbable 
things. 

He  saw  David  the  next  day. 


THE  DARK  MOTHER 

"Really,  man,  why  do  you  insist  on  foisting  such  impossible 
persons  on  yourself  and  me?" 

David  squirmed.  "I  can't  say  I  like  him  either.  But  he 
seemed  begging  to  come  along.'7 

"He  is  the  dullest  man  I  have  seen  in  a  year.  I  didn't  cut 
short  my  trip,  you  know,  to  dine  with  your  stray  cats." 

"I  suspected  you  couldn't  go  him.  ...  I  knew  something 
was  the  matter.  .  .  ." 

.  .  .  That  was  long  since:  that  could  not  happen  now.  Tom 
sat  over  his  sleeping  friend  on  the  floor  and  had  this  thought: 
"He  feels  differently  now."  Of  a  sudden  a  twinge  strangely 
akin  to  guilt  went  through  him.  What  was  he  thinking  about 
indeed?  He  had  wanted  to  be  with  David  those  idle  days. 
David  had  not  had  the  same  wish  so  strongly  since  he  had 
spoiled  their  first  evening  together.  Perhaps  now  in  a  like 
case  he  might  wish  more  strongly.  What  was  there  unusual — 
guilty — in  that?  He  had  no  desire  to  seal  David  hermetically 
from  the  world.  Surely  he  showed  the  contrary  intentions. 
Was  he  not  introducing  him  to  his  friends?  David  had  had 
a  full  ten  days,  and  he  ten  empty  ones.  Another  time,  David 
might  be  the  eager  one.  What  was  he  troubling  himself 
about?  .  .  . 

David  lay  still  and  asleep  on  the  floor.  David  was  up, 
brandishing  his  arms,  and  his  eyes  sleepless  as  a  day  after 
hours  of  sun. 

"I  am  off  for  a  spin."  David  was  devoted  to  his  bicycle. 
"What  are  you  doing  this  afternoon?" 

Tom  seemed  to  search  up  and  down  with  his  head.  "I 
can't  think  of  anything." 

"Good!  Then,  you'll  join  us  on  our  walk  later  on.  We're 
going  to  Bronx  Park:  and  have  a  supper  of  popcorn — three 
colors — hot-dogs  and  sauerkraut  and  ice-cream  soda." 

"Who  are?" 

"Why,  Cornelia  and  I — and  you." 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  191 

"I  don't  like  the  bill-o'-fare." 

David's  face  went  a  shade  less  light. 

"Besides,"  Tom  caught  himself,  "I  have  an  engagement.  I 
promised  to  have  tea  with  Mrs.  Duffield.  Fennido  is  to  be 
there.  She  asked  me  specially  to  bring  you,  too." 

"You  don't  seem  to  go  out  as  much  with  Cornelia  and  me, 
as  you  used  to." 

"My  dear  fellow,  I  am  getting  busier  all  the  time.  You 
know  that.  If  you  don't  understand,  who  should?  You  know 
that  there  goes  into  a  date  like  this  something  other  than 
free  choice."  He  walked  up  and  down.  David  stood  still. 
"Will  you  come?"  Tom  asked. 

"I  have  this  engagement  with  Cornelia.  ...  If  you  ask 
Cornelia  also."  Tom's  eyes  dropped.  He  hummed  a  few 
high  notes  of  a  popular  melody.  He  found  his  chair,  slapped 
the  Sunday  paper  into  its  proper  folds  on  his  knees. 

"One  doesn't  take  one's  family  to  these  chatters,  Davie. 
Fortunately,  since  Cornelia  would  have  to  be  dragged.  How 
unreasonable  you  are." 

David  stood  motionless.  He  was  wondering  if  Tom  told 
all  the  truth.  Tom  took  the  offensive:  "I'll  be  blessed,  Davie, 
if  you're  not  thinking  evil  things  about  me  now.  I  don't  give 
enough  care  to  my  Sister.  I  don't  bring  her  enough  into  my 
life,  into  our  life."  He  sat  back  in  his  chair  and  thrust  his 
sharp  question  into  the  indecisive  vagueness  of  David's  "Not 
so?" 

"Why — I  didn't  say  that.  .  .  .  But  why  do  we  go  out  to 
gether  so  seldom  now?  We  three.  Why  is  Cornelia  here  so 
little?" 

"Why  don't  you  invite  her?" 

"I  always  thought  that  was  for  you  to  do." 

"The  truth  is,  David,  you  see  Cornelia  plenty."  Tom  had 
achieved  the  tune  he  wanted.  He  was  out  of  the  talk.  By 
stress  of  David  he  would  manage  to  remain  out.  "I  have 


192  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

nothing  against  your  friendship  with  Sis.  I  am  happy  about 
it.  I  had  something  to  do  with  making  it,  you  may  remember. 
It  is  good  for  her — and  she  means  a  lot.  But  you  must 
broaden  out,  man;  at  your  time  of  life  you  must  not  crib 
yourself,  even  with  a  Cornelia.  You  have  no  idea  of  the 
gamut  of  human  relationships:  of  their  variance  and  won 
der.  .  .  .  Why  do  you  think  I  wished  you  to  come  with  me, 
this  afternoon?  You  see  how  frank  I  am.  Cornelia  you  can 
have  any  time  and  always.  But  Laura  Duffield  will  get  weary 
of  inviting  you  to  meet  her  friends,  if  you  continue  to  show 
such  nimbleness  in  avoiding  her.  That  is  precisely  what  you 
need.  Yes — a  lot  more,  just  now,  than  you  need  Sister." 

Tom  was  unanswerable.  He  did  not  press  the  matter  fur 
ther.  He  read  the  news.  But  David  later  trudging  the  de 
serted  side-street,  between  silent  walls,  could  not  convince 
himself  there  was  no  answer. 

"Cornelia,"  he  said,  "come  over  to  our  place  and  spend 
Wednesday  evening." 

"I  have  an  engagement,  Davie." 

"Then  come  Thursday.    Or  Friday." 

Cornelia  stopped.  "Let's  sit  on  that  bench,"  she  said. 

"Quick! — before  some  one  else "  Her  first  remark  had 

been  low,  serious.  A  touch  of  brightness  in  her  last  words 
that  made  David  look  at  her.  As  they  sat,  it  was  gone. 

Carriages  flowed  before  them.  Motionless  coachmen,  im 
mobile  ladies,  cramped  frilled  children  passed  like  wooden 
figures  in  a  carrousel.  Only  the  horses  lived.  And  yet  not 
all  of  them,  since  their  docked  tails  and  their  cruelly  reined 
necks  had  an  air  of  artifice. 

"Listen,  David.  I  want  to  speak  to  you.  I  should  love 
to  accept  your  invitation.  But  ..."  she  stopped. 

David  felt  a  strange  commotion.  Something  within  him 
was  full  of  panic,  wanted  to  get  away.  At  most  a  fraternal 
fault  was  going  to  be  found  with  Tom.  Why  then  did  he 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  193 

i 
have  the  sense  that  it  was  he  who  was  going  to  be  accused — 

and  more  still,  justly?  These  gusts  of  emotion  were  ridicu 
lous.  Cornelia  had  as  yet  said  nothing.  Yet,  at  that  moment, 
if  a  man  had  come  up  to  him  and  asked:  "Is  Thomas  Ren- 
nard  your  friend?"  David  would  have  stammered.  Cornelia 
was  speaking. 

"You  know,  Davie — it  was  natural  enough — when  Tom 
lived  alone,  he  used  always  to  come  to  me.  I  dropped  in 
occasionally  to  look  after  him — his  curtains  or  his  linen — or 
of  course,  if  he  wasn't  well.  Then,  he'd  be  bundled  over  to 
my  place.  But  I  had  'our  home.'  Now,  he  has  a  real,  live 
able  place — the  better  of  us  two.  But  I  have  the  feeling, 
David,  that  this  has  not  altered  the  old  custom.  Tom  does 
not  suggest  my  spending  evenings  with  you."  Having  said 
so  little,  she  was  afraid  she  had  said  too  much.  She  went  on: 
"Oh,  course,  he  still  comes  to  me."  , 

"Alone,  then.  We  have  not  been  together  in  your  place 
since  Tom  is  back  from  his  vacation." 

"Yes,  he  comes  alone."  Cornelia  spoke  this  slowly,  pen 
sively.  Her  next  words  trembled  swift  upon  each  other  as 
if  escaping  her  thought.  "I  have  the  idea  that  perhaps  he 

likes  to  have  his  place  apart It  was  that  way  with  his 

old  room.  When  he  wanted  me,  he  came  to  me.  He  knew, 
I  was  not  that  way:  that  I  was  always  glad  to  see  him.  I 
guess,  don't  you  think,  he  still  needs  his  corner  for  being 
solitary?" 

"But,  Cornelia — why  then,  share  a " 

"Oh,  that  is  different,  Davie.    Women  are  in  the  way." 

"I  don't  feel  that  you  are.     Cornelia." 

"He  does.  He  is  a  strange  dear,  you  know.  He  feels  that 
— that  women  are  in  the  way.  He  must." 

David's  inexorable  logic  was  a  burden  to  Cornelia  who 
loved  it — even  as  his  candor  hurt  though  she  was  nursing  it. 
"Then  you  won't  come,  next  week?" 


i94  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

"Not  until  Tom  asks  me.  Only  the  first  time  I  will  feel 
like  that.  The  first  time,  it  seems  to  me,  the  invitation  had 
better  come  from  him." 

She  wanted  to  talk  on.  She  had  so  much  to  ask  and  to 
confess.  She  had  not  been  invited  to  help  fix  their  rooms. 
This  was  a  most  hurting  difference.  She  had  concealed  it. 
She  felt  that  her  words  with  David  had  been  stupid.  Better 
silence  than  her  feeble  approach  to  speaking.  What  she 
wanted  David  to  see  she  had  most  hidden.  All  her  moods 
toward  him  were  of  that  sort.  Always,  always.  If  she  wanted 
to  give  herself,  there  she  was  turning  away.  Of  course  Tom 
was  not  helpless  in  such  a  matter  as  arranging  his  apartment. 
He  had  his  own  ideas.  She  had  been  sure  at  least  that  she 
would  be  consulted.  One  afternoon  she  came:  "How  do  you 
like  things?"  They  were  complete.  "Splendidly,  Tom." 
That  was  all.  It  was  not  the  artist  who  was  offended.  The 
artist  in  Cornelia  could  always  be  disposed  of.  But  the 
woman — the  sister.  She  realized  that  David  also  had  been 
but  perfunctorily  consulted.  This  was  still  Tom's  place. 
Thinking  of  that  Cornelia  forgot  her  own  slight. 

She  looked  at  the  boy  beside  her,  looked  up  at  him.  They 
sat  on  the  ground.  A  pine  tree  rose  straight  above  them. 
David  studied  the  split  roll  in  his  hand,  with  its  long  red 
sausage  sticking  out  at  both  ends. 

"I  never  know  where  to  begin,"  he  chuckled. 

Why  could  she  not  at  least  ask  questions?  W7hat  did  they 
talk  of,  idle  nights?  What  was  Tom's  attitude  at  home  to 
ward  David?  Tom's  place.  Did  David  feel  this? 

"First  you  must  even  up  the  roll  and  the  sausage — bite  off 
both  ends.  Like  this." 

"That's  the  rule?" 

"The  rule.  .  .  ."  She  was  like  a  woman  carrying  a  great 
load  upon  her  back  afraid  to  ease  it,  shift  it  a  bit  from  the 
sore  spot  lest  it  crush  her.  She  was  silent. 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  195 

David  ate  methodically.  He  enjoyed  eating.  The  bite  of 
the  mustard  was  good  on  his  tender  tongue.  He  felt  Cornelia 
beside  him  eating,  not  knowing  she  ate.  The  "hot  dog"  was 
gone:  he  felt  in  her  silence  a  need  of  question  which  aroused 
his  own. 

He  wanted  to  know  the  truth  of  this  strange  problem  be 
tween  Tom  and  his  sister.  He  wanted  to  know  if  Cornelia 
was  really  somewhat  sentimental,  somewhat  "the  old  wo 
man."  He  wanted  to  be  sure  that  she  was;  that  Tom  was 
right,  loving  her,  prizing  her,  putting  her  in  her  place.  He 
wanted  to  be  sure  that  she  was  not.  ...  He  did  not  want 
to  lose  a  tithe  of  his  respect  for  her — and  for  himself,  sitting 
beside  her  close  and  wanting  no  change.  .  .  . 

A  pause,  with  the  weight  of  their  questions  clear  and  com 
pact — closing  them  in.  He  was  beside  her  coming  close.  She 
was  open.  Could  they  not  be  open  in  this  silence,  whatever 
came?  A  tree,  warm  air,  no  one.  Could  they  not  stay  open, 
whatever  was  born? 

Cornelia  stirred  with  anguish.  She  was  afraid:  she  was 
afraid  to  look  at  David:  for  she  was  very  open.  He  would 
pour  in  through  her  eyes,  if  her  eyes  touched  him.  All  he — 
into  her  all.  Why  not?  Her  answer  was  a  word  of  escape. 

" that  party,  tell  me  about  it "  Escape  from  her 
self  since  already,  she  knew,  David  was  within  her.  She 
could  not  drive  him  away.  She  had  no  will  to.  She  could 
escape  from  herself. 

" 1  am  not  made  for  parties.  But,  oh,  Cornelia?  There 

was  a  man,  a  wonderful  man!  He  played  piano  for  us.  He 
said " 

Their  spirits  had  met.  Upon  the  tiny  separateness  of  their 
questions  of  Tom  their  spirits  had  met  and  tremorously 
touched.  Now,  their  spirits  floated  in  opposite  directions; 
timidly,  still  eye  to  eye,  but  with  contrary  wings  propelling 
them  away. 


196  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

They  clasped  hands. 

"Good-by."    "Good-by,  Davie." 

The  true  psychic  reaction  of  their  separateness  together 
came  to  them  both.  .  .  .  David  wondered  if  Tom  was  right. 
He  had  a  good  time  with  Cornelia.  Nothing  fecund  about 
it.  Being  with  her  led,  if  to  anything,  to  gaps  and  to  stops 
invisible,  before  which  always  they  turned  away.  "Perhaps 
she  is  sterile."  "Why  doesn't  she  get  married?"  Sudden 
he  had  a  grievance  against  Cornelia.  Life  to  them  must  be 
two  separate  things.  He  was  happy  with  her,  but  even  that 
was  a  mere  emptiness  he  would  with  youthful  eagerness  have 
sold  for  a  rich  battle  of  pain.  She  was  a  woman,  yet  no 
woman  to  him.  .  .  .  Cornelia  walked  away,  knowing  what 
David  felt.  All  the  way  back  to  her  rooms  she  felt  David 
moving  toward  Tom,  David  doubting,  David  beginning  tor 
patronize  and  to  take  her  in  circumstance  and  reason. 

She  thought  his  thoughts.  She  followed  his  eyes  as  they 
turned  away  from  hers,  as  they  turned  away  from  her.  Her 
own  were  filled  only  with  what  filled  his.  Seeing  with  his  eyes 
she  saw  her  enemy.  She  saw  her  brother.  .  .  . 


IX 


DAVID   did  not  understand  or  question  the  spirit  in 
which,   the   following   night,   he  went   with   Tom  to 
dine  at  the  apartment  of  Constance  Bardale. 
'  She  had  watched  him  with  large  eyes  at  the  table,  where 
he  sat  mostly  silent  and  very  busy  with  the  food  that  he 
found  delicious.    She  had  manoeuvered  him  later  aside  from 
the  chattering  group.    They  talked  quietly  together.     David 
had  no  sense  of  her  as  yet,  beyond  the  silk  cold  sheath  of  an 
earth-colored  dress  fending  a  woman's  body. 

But  he  did  not  suffer.  He  said  to  himself:  "I  don't  know 
really  what  to  say  to  her.  But  it  goes  all  right.'7  He  was 
pleased  at  this,  grateful  to  her.  He  showed  it. 

The  opposing  group  broke  into  laughter.  It  broke  its  con 
fines.  A  tall  massive  man  stood  over  the  two. 

"Constance,"  he  said,  "you  must  hear  this."  A  thick, 
foreign  accent  marred  his  otherwise  perfect  English.  He  was 
an  Austrian:  head  of  the  Stegending  Galleries  on  Fifth  Ave 
nue  where  second-rate  examples  of  second-rate  old  masters 
fetched  first-rate  prices.  He  stood  very  close  to  Constance 
Bardale,  who  looked  askance  at  him  with  sly  knowledge  light 
ing  the  flecks  in  her  gray  eyes.  She  seemed  to  be  saying: 
"So  this  is  the  best  excuse  you  could  find  for  breaking  into 
my  tete-a-tete?  Don't  you  see  it  is  hopeless?  No,  of  course,- 
you  wouldn't." 

The  Austrian's  sally  had  its  success.  It  was  a  breach  to 
ward  the  hostess  through  which  now  the  others  began  to  flow 
upon  her.  The  guests  shifted  near.  David  remarked  how 
directly  Mr.  Stegending  spoke  to  Miss  Bardale.  Unlike  him- 

197 


198  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

self.  But  he  took  comfort  in  his  partial  isolation.  He  rested 
back  in  it  as  he  would  have  in  his  chair  had  his  self-con 
sciousness  not  made  him  crane  stiffly  forward. 

"It  was  Fennido's  idea,"  said  Stegending. 

"I  assure  you,  Karl,  it  was  Con's."  Fennido  balanced  him 
self  with  grace.  In  a  half  courtesy  he  thrust  out  an  indicat 
ing  palm  toward  his  hostess. 

"Mine?" 

"Now  wait."  Richard  Fennido  rose  to  his  full  plump 
height.  David  saw  how  large  his  buttocks  were,  like  a  wo* 
man's:  his  small  blue  eyes  peered  from  beside  the  curved  nose 
like  a  bird's.  He  was  poising  evidently  for  his  sort  of  flight 
— in  words. 

"I  said  it  was  your  idea,  Constance,  and  I  can  prove  it." 

A  little  woman  at  his  side  laughed  prematurely.  Her  eyes 
seemed  fixed  in  a  sort  of  perpetual  fright.  This  was  Mrs. 
May  Delano,  and  her  great  fear  was  not  to  appreciate  and 
not  to  appear  at  home.  Fennido  began. 

David  found,  as  he  talked,  no  need  of  the  effort  of  atten 
tion.  This  Mr.  Fennido  did  not  notice  him  at  all.  He  seemed 
to  hold  Constance  Bardale  with  his  eyes,  the  group  about  him 
with  his  shoulders  that  were  curiously  sharp  above  so  plump 
a  body.  He  was  done.  There  was  a  breaking  up.  A  new 
shredding  of  words,  a  new  scramble  from  which  another  voice 
emerged,  momently  mastered  attention,  sank  away. 

David  watched  Tom.  Not  consciously  so  much  as  be 
cause  he  nearly  always  saw  him,  when  Tom  was  there  to  see. 
He  felt  a  strange  thing.  Tom,  the  casual,  easy  Tom,  was 
uneasy.  He  was  fretted  by  some  sharp  discomfort.  His  eyes 
wandered,  his  feet  tapped,  he  lighted  a  cigarette  and  threw  it 
away.  Fennido  talked  again.  A  great  talker.  Tom  gathered 
the  sharp  points  of  his  nerves  together:  he  was  once  more 
composed  but  with  a  tension  that  had  in  it  the  power  of  some 
prefatory  move:  almost  a  charge.  In  the  ensuing  scatter  of 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  199 

minds,  Tom  was  busy  gathering  them  together,  gathering  them 
to  him.  Ill-at-ease  no  longer.  He  was  speaking.  .  .  . 

He  spoke  for  a  while,  wreathed  in  the  comfortable  silence 
of  the  others.  David's  eyes,  moved  by  an  impulse  he  was  not 
conscious  of,  wandered.  They  met  the  eyes  of  Marcia  Duf- 
field.  He  looked  away,  shocked  by  a  current  which  had  flowed 
momently  between  them.  David  knew  Tom's  words  held  him 
unpleasantly;  at  times  held  him  not  at  all.  What  was  the 
interest  in  them,  what  their  motive,  beyond  Tom's  wish  to 
speak  and  to  hold  interest?  David  sensed  this:  sensed  the 
rebuke  he  felt  in  this  for  Tom.  As  his  eyes  went  back  to 
the  eyes  of  Marcia  Duffield  it  came  to  him  that  she  was  feel 
ing  similar  things  with  him.  In  the  brief  meeting  of  their 
eyes,  it  was  as  if  they  had  discovered  one  another  in  them 
selves. 

This  was  absurd  and  impossible!  Marcia  Duffield?  David's 
mind  could  not  grasp  this  flashing  intuition;  it  slipped  leaving 
no  conscious  mark.  He  looked  harder  at  the  others  in  the 
unwitting  need  not  to  look  again  at  her.  Already,  what  he 
could  carry  with  him  of  that  strange  momentary  kinship 
across  the  room  was  reduced  to  the  sense  of  bright,  black,  hard 
eyes,  filled  with  a  wistful  question. 

He  was  aware  of  King  Van  Ness:  perhaps  because  that  solid 
gentleman  was  always  looking  at  Marcia.  David  knew  who 
he  was:  Junior  partner  in  Van  Ness,  Stone  and  Company — 
son  of  a  great  banker,  doubtless  a  millionaire.  Van  Ness  sat 
as  if  between  two  fascinations:  the  voluble  one  that  was  prin 
cipally  Tom,  who  at  times  caught  him  and  sent  him  stiffer 
forward  in  his  chair;  the  silent  one,  Marcia,  who  never  looked 
at  him,  but  the  stirring  of  whose  hands  and  mouth  was  at 
once  reflected  in  his  ways — like  the  image  in  a  dull  steel 
mirror.  Van  Ness  was  heavy  and  tall,  not  stout.  His  big 
bones  and  the  heft  of  his  arms  and  legs  gave  the  impression 
'  of  extraordinary  weight.  Their  heaviness  proceeded  rather 


200  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

from  his  mood  than  their  own  heaviness.  Van  Ness  was 
heavy,  not  because  he  was  great  in  bulk,  but  because  he  was 
small  in  spirit.  The  unlit  stretch  of  him  was  a  sag  and  a  pull 
downward  because  he  lacked  the  lift  of  mental  resilience.  His 
head  stated  this.  The  forehead  was  large  and  bulging.  The 
brown  eyes  opened  wide  and  were  far  apart.  The  nose  was 
long,  straight,  clumsily  rather  than  strongly  molded  with 
unmoving  nostrils.  Van  Ness  wore  a  black  mustache,  a 
straight-cropt  bristly  brush:  his  mouth  was  small  and  un 
perturbed;  his  chin  jutted  forward  with  a  counterfeit  of 
power  that  was  mere  lack  of  curiosity,  unresistance  to  the 
proprieties  and  manners  birth  had  brought  him.  This  was 
King  Van  Ness:  supremely  gentlemanly,  supremely  rich,  su 
premely  dull — impregnable.  He  stirred  in  the  talk  of  Fennido 
and  Tom  as  a  heavy  vessel  creaks  at  anchor  in  a  choppy 
sea.  .  .  . 

David  heard  Tom  again. 

"We  had  it  out,  until  seven  o'clock  that  night.  I  came 
home  exhausted." 

Tom  glanced  at  David.  Not  long  or  sure  enough  to  see 
him  turn  pale. 

"But  it  can't  be!  It's  a  lie!"  David  said  to  himself.  He 
remembered  the  evening  Tom  referred  to.  He  had  come  home 
at  six.  Tom  lay  on  the  couch.  In  excellent  spirits.  They 
had  gone  to  Brown's  Chop-House  for  dinner.  And  yet — 
David,  as  usual,  had  no  positive  proof.  Perhaps  a  mere 
exaggeration,  a  mistake  in  the  day.  Why  was  he  always  so 
eager — so  afraid — to  catch  Tom  in  a  trivial  falsehood? 

Marcia  was  speaking  to  him.  Van  Ness  had  roused  him 
self  to  a  rare  gust  of  words.  Serious  words,  half-angry.  The 
question  of  labor-unions.  Marcia  drew  Tom  aside. 

David  saw  how  her  eyes  were  close  on  him  and  how  her 
breast  stirred  faintly.  He  saw  that  Tom  was  watching  only 
with  his  ears:  his  eyes  wandered  to  the  talking  banker.  In 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  201 

a  pause,  "You  must  have  had  your  wits  about  you!"  he  threw 
in.  He  had  heard  every  word. 

Van  Ness  was  flattered.  Tom  threw  his  head  back,  looking 
at  the  big  man  in  a  way  that  drew  a  line  between  them.  Van 
Ness  came  up,  he  seated  himself  beside  the  pair.  Marcia's 
lips  curled  as  if  they  had  been  stung.  Van  Ness  beamed  on 
Tom,  as  he  might  have  if  Tom  from  great  natural  kindness 
had  done  him  a  good  turn.  Marcia  was  stiff  in  her  chair, 
looking  away.  She  seemed  to  be  suffering  and  not  to  care 
for  the  instant  if  others  saw  it.  Then,  her  face  covered.  Why 
did  David  sense  bravery  in  that?  Marcia  thought  she  could 
wound  either  man  by  being  affable  to  the  other  but  she  wanted 
to  wound  both.  Then  it  occurred  to  her  that  smiling  on  Van 
Ness  might  delight  Tom  merely.  She  knew  his  game.  He 
was  done  with  her.  He  was  putting  her  away,  neatly,  satis 
factorily — as  he  did,  doubtless,  all  things.  The  bitterness 
was,  she  could  not  but  fall  in  with  his  plans.  They  were  her 
plans  also.  None  fitted  them  better  than  King  Van  Ness. 
If  only  Tom  were  not  thrusting  her  into  his  arms!  If  only 
she  had  the  madness,  the  courage  to  flout  Van  Ness  in  order 
to  spite  Tom!  She  believed  she  might.  But  if  she  failed, 
thereafter,  to  marry  as  well?  her  humiliation  would  still  be 
before  Tom:  he  would  laugh  at  her,  or  pity.  It  was  all  one. 
He  was  capable  of  saying:  "Why  didn't  you  take  Van  Ness? 
Don't  say  I  stood  in  your  way!"  Marcia  knew  she  must 
take  him,  some  time.  If  only  she  could  in  the  passing  send 
an  arrow  to  the  man  who,  having  been  her  lover,  had  now 
the  impudence  to  tell  her:  "I  am  your  friend,  Marcia.  I  am 
deeply  concerned."  Her  friend!  She  had  never  been  able 
to  discover  her  successor.  She  sat  now,  finding  in  her  negative 
aloofness  the  one  sure  way  of  not  satisfying  Tom  in  an  attempt 
to  hurt  him.  He  took  pleasure  so  strangely! 

David  was  next  to  Mrs.  May  Delano.  She  straining  to 
take  some  humble  part  in  the  near  tete-a-tete  of  Fennido  and 


202  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

Stegending  with  Constance  Bardale.  She  discerned  David's 
separation  from  the  group:  deduced  therefrom  his  inferiority. 
She  was  afraid  to  give  much  heed  to  him.  She  was  a  proper, 
nervous  little  woman.  She  had  revolted  from  her  world  be 
cause  she  was  so  like  her  stodgy  mother,  so  much  attached 
to  her  thrifty  and  careful  father.  She  had  married  a  mentally 
inferior  Irishman  because  he  owned  two  theaters  on  Broadway 
and  was  hence  in  touch  with  "art."  All  her  life  was  a  pursuit 
of  "interesting"  people:  in  reality  a  retreat — equally  vain — 
from  the  middle  class  whose  manners  and  beliefs  rooted  in 
her  soul.  Her  simple  Jewish  family  took  up  her  husband 
with  delight.  "I  think,  dear,"  he  told  her  in  order  to  give 
her  pleasure,  "I  think  I  have  more  good  Jewish  friends  than 
any  other  sort."  She  was,  indeed,  miserably  married.  .  .  . 

David  was  not  averse  to  her  leaving  him  alone.  He  felt 
what  this  woman  was,  since  he  was  untutored  in  the  symbols 
of  her  pose.  He  wondered  why  Mr.  Stegending  bit  his  lips. 

Fennido  was  lyric  against  the  baited  Stegending's  silence. 
Stegending  brooded  and  tried  not  to  listen  to  the  intimate 
badinage  of  Constance  and  her  foil.  His  eyes  rested  glower 
ing,  stiff  on  this  supple  woman;  wandered  off  to  some  dimmer 
focus.  A  strange  sorrow  pervaded  his  hard  face,  the  sorrow 
of  an  animal  rather  than  of  a  man.  In  this  state,  David 
almost  liked  him.  He  looked  less  wise,  less  strong,  more  full 
of  life  when  he  was  full  of  this  strange  sorrow.  Constance 
Bardale  snatched  him  back  from  his  withdrawal;  with  a 
word  fixed  his  eyes  once  more  on  her.  It  was  as  if  she  needed 
him  there  in  order  to  go  on  with  Fennido.  Stegending's  face 
sharpened,  it  fell  again  into  its  mold  of  human  cunning:  it 
was  nearer  this  woman,  farther  from  what  David  had  cared 
for  in  him. 

Constance  got  up;  she  took  May  Delano  by  the  hand  and 
placed  her  glowing  in  her  chair.  She  turned  her  back  on  the 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  203 

two  men  who  watched  her  slipping  from  them  as  one  stares 
at  an  impossible  offense. 

"Well,  Mr.  Markand,  are  you  coming  to  see  me  ever  of 
your  own  accord,  or  will  I  always  have  to  wait  till  there's  a* 
dinner?" 

She  sat  beside  him,  bringing  her  chair  still  closer.  She 
smiled  with  her  full  face  and  her  sinuously  deflected  body. 

At  once  David  knew  that  this  which  was  happening  to 
him  was  like  the  other  things  which  he  had  watched.  He 
was  part  of  this  buzzing  world.  But  outside  of  it,  so  that  he 
still  could  understand. 

"I  think  I  shall  come,  Miss  Bardale.  It  is  awfully  good 
of  you.  .  .  ." 

"It  is  not  good  of  me.  I  have  no  one  in  my  place  out  of 
kindness.  With  me,  I  assure  you,  charity  stops  at  home." 

David  flushed  at  the  abrupt  nakedness  of  her  compliment. 
He  gathered  from  the  candor  of  her  example  the  courage  to 
look  at  her  as  she  had  looked  at  him. 

She  was  not  beautiful.  Her  skin  had  a  strange  olive  tinge: 
it  was  flecldess  smooth:  it  was  not  transparent.  Her  hair  was 
heavy,  not  fine.  He  noticed  her  wide  short,  hands.  Capable 
hands.  The  sense  of  her  flesh,  under  the  quiet  silken  sheath  of 
her  gown  had  a  disquietude  and  a  heat  that  won  him.  For 
the  first  time  he  realized  how  a  woman  whom  he  was  able  to 
know  not  beautiful  could  be  desirable.  She  made  a  direct 
call  upon  his  senses.  His  senses  answered.  ( 

"You  can't  possibly  like  me,  yet,  Miss  Bardale?  You  do 
not  know  me.  Why,  then,  except  to  be  polite " 

She  laughed.    Her  laughter  went  into  words. 

His  head  was  left  out  of  it.  She  was  a  body.  His  own 
body  told  him.  Suddenly  her  talk  and  his  seemed  remote 
from  the  main  purpose  of  their  nearness  as  if  they  stood  in 
opposite  corners  of  the  room,  tilting  at  each  other  with  long 
sticks. 


204  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

He  had  to  go  on  tilting.  He  could  not  come  nearer.  How 
ever  inclined  he  was — and  to  his  own  amazement — to  drop 
his  guards. 

Her  talk,  he  vaguely  knew,  made  easy  his  sitting  there. 
In  the  same  distant  sense  he  felt  that  his  defensive  parries 
were  not  unworthy.  But  all  of  this  was  not  very  conscious. 
The  part  of  David  given  to  their  talk  was  swimming  along 
with  a  free  stroke  that  the  heavy  touch  of  his  deliberation 
could  only  have  disturbed.  Indeed,  a  part  of  him  was  absent, 
and  was  busy  elsewhere.  Their  words  rose  up  like  a  pelting 
fire.  By  its  light,  David  could  look  beyond,  could  peer  into 
the  spiritual  corners  of  the  room,  could  see  their  darkness. 

There  seemed  no  affection  at  all:  no  fellowship.  Even  for 
themselves,  these  persons  had  no  affection.  Their  egoism  was 
a  hard  and  desperate  passion:  fruit  of  some  perennial  re 
sistance.  David  could  not  have  reasoned  out  why  this  should 
be:  how  affection  must  die  in  a  hot  contest:  how  either  it 
must  die  or  it  must  share  the  intensity  of  the  combating 
forces  and  turn  to  passion.  The  way  of  these  men  and 
women  toward  themselves  had  much  the  way  of  animals 
fiercely  competing  for  food  and  for  love.  In  a  less  bitter  con 
test  they  could  have  played  together:  like  children  or  like 
animals  that  are  fed  and  tamed.  Now  they  were  playing  at 
.playing.  David  felt,  in  this,  their  wide  distinction  from 
animals.  A  whole  array  of  impulses  and  thoughts  muddied 
and  distressed  what  might  have  been  the  clear  flow  of  natural 
conflict.  They  were  whipped  up  into  a  delirium  of  broken 
starts  that  in  the  end  lacked  all  direction.  Endlessly  at  work, 
in  the  upholstered  room,  under  the  gowns  of  silk  and  the 
starched  bosoms,  a  scrimmage  of  cold  desire.  Some  things 
each  desired  of  the  others:  a  body,  ruin,  disappearance, 
help.  .  .  .  David  thought  his  impressions  strange.  Surely, 
he  was  mistaken,  seeing  nonsense? 

No  doubt,  however,  of  what  Constance  Bardale  was  now 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  205 

about.  He  had  no  idea  of  her  goal:  it  was  plain  she  was  test 
ing  him.  As  surely  as  if  her  capable  hands  had  moved  over 
his  body,  she  took  his  measure. 

He  knew  now  what  he  was  doing,  with  his  parries.  To 
defend  himself  was  to  accept  her  gage  of  battle.  He  was 
meeting  Constance  Bardale  in  the  field  she  had  chosen.  This 
was  precisely  what  he  now  no  longer  wanted  to  do.  He 
became  silent.  And  she  who  knew  a  way  for  his  defensive 
was  helpless  against  his  retreat.  Against  his  resistance,  she 
could  display  her  forces,  but  she  was  scattered  and  spent  in 
the  emptiness  before  her.  David  sat  back  in  his  chair,  look 
ing  beyond,  thinking,  and  gave  her  nothing. 

Constance  Bardale  got  up  and  left  him.  "Let  him  stay 
alone  if  that  is  really  what  he  wants."  She  thought  in  the 
falseness  of  a  moment's  pique  she  had  been  moved  to  rescue 
him  from  a  painful  solitude  among  the  chatter  of  others. 

As  she  sat  again,  talking  elsewhere,  she  had  David  in  mind. 

"What  is  it?"  She  recovered  herself.  "Is  he  a  ninny  or  was 
he  just  bored?  I  don't  think  he's  a  ninny."  She  had  in 
telligence  to  know,  at  least,  that  he  had  not  been  frightened. 
There  had  been  a  calm  in  his  sudden  withdrawal  which  was 
the  contrary  of  fear. 

She  took  his  hand  at  the  door,  and  now  when  the  invitation 
she  had  so  unconventionally  stressed  would  have  been  a  mere 
matter  of  form,  she  kept  silent. 

"Good-night,  Mr.  Markand." 

"Good-night,  Miss  Bardale." 

He  was  very  serious  and  far  away.  She  had  the  wit  to 
smile  and  turn  to  the  others.  .  .  . 

It  was  a  crystal  night  of  autumn.  David  and  Tom  could 
not  think  of  taking  a  car. 

David  was  sorely  troubled.  He  was  glad  Tom  made  no 
effort  to  talk.  A  question  from  him  would  have  thrown 


206  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

David  into  panic.     It  was  about  Tom  he  was  troubled.     And 
about  himself. 

"I  am  afraid.  I  am  afraid  to  meet  a  woman  flirting  with 
me.  I  am  a  coward,"  he  muttered  to  himself.  Constance 
Bardale  had  understood  him  better.  She  had  glimpsed  under 
his  sudden  tenacity  of  refusal  to  meet  her,  to  meet  even 
her  eyes  or  her  laughter,  some  deeper  preoccupation  which  her 
profane  self  must  not  be  allowed  to  enter.  But  David  walked 
with  a  sense  of  discomfort — wide  and  profound — as  if  all 
life  were  a  garment  that  fitted  him  ill.  Tom  was  a  mere 
most  sensitive  spot  where  the  ungainly  garment  caught. 

He  had  the  sad  conviction  of  Tom's  dishonesty  from  the 
fact  that  he  went  so  well  in  that  dishonest  group:  of  Tom's 
equal  striving  to  overcome,  to  grasp,  to  possess,  he  could  have 
no  doubt.  It  was  all  very  ugly  to  David.  That  did  not 
matter.  It  mattered  painfully  that  Tom  should  be  ugly! 
Tom  was  his  friend  whom  he  loved:  whose  life  he  was  enter 
ing  more  and  more.  Who  was  at  fault  that  these  constant 
doubts  flared  up  against  the  passage? 

Now  he  wanted  to  talk  to  Tom.  Tom  always  took  these 
doubts  and  talked  them  away.  He  wanted  Tom  to  dispose 
of  the  night's  new  accumulation. 

Tom  walked  on.  He  seemed  troubled  also.  This  was  a 
new  thought  lancing  into  David.  His  own  misgivings  were 
a  shade  less  clear.  Tom  was  troubled.  Perhaps  Tom  had  a 

grievance  against  him?     If  he  did 

I  "What  makes  you  so  silent?"  he  asked,  before  he  knew: 
reflexedly  as  one  jumps  from  a  danger  and  then  looks  to 
know  what  it  is. 

"Do  you  want  to  know?"  Tom's  voice  was  hard.  "I  am 
going  to  tell  you,  David.  Sometimes  you  make  it  anything 
but  easy  for  me.  .  .  .  These  were  my  friends.  For  my  sake, 
you  might  have  tried  to  be  a  little  pleasant.  ..." 

"Wasn't  I  pleasant,  Tom?" 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  207 

"Did  you  stir  yourself  to  be?  Oh,  of  course,  I  know  what's 
in  your  mind.  This  is  easy  for  Tom.  He  takes  to  all  that 
frivol  naturally.'  Well,  I  assure  you,  my  dear  friend,  you  are 
mistaken.  I  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  But  I  have  a  sense  of 
the  world  and  of  the  need  of  living  in  it.  That  sense  at 
times,  fortunately  for  me,  is  greater  than  my  sense  of  my 
own  importance.  Your  sulks  are  nothing  but  conceit.  Be 
lieve  me!  If  I  am  distressed,  it  is  because  I  am  anxious. 
I  want  you  to  grow  up.  I  take  you  to  places  where  you  meet 
mature  and  interesting  people:  people  with  minds.  You 
might  do  me  the  honor  of  trusting  my  intentions:  enough  not 
to  sit  there  as  if  I  had  taken  you  to  a  dime  museum." 

"Tom I  am  sorry!  I  did  the  best  I  knew  how.  .  .  . 

Something  made  me  melancholy — yes." 

This  was  all  wrong,  all  wrong,  David  was  thinking.  Yet 
how  could  he  right  it?  Tom  had  no  real  grievance  against 
him.  It  was  he  who  had  the  grievance!  Why  did  things 
always  take  this  perverse  turn?  Why  was  he  always  in  the 
wrong?  This  time  he  was  not.  .  .  .  Tom  spoke  on.  He  too 
hated  the  superficial  form  that  social  intercourse  seemed  fate- 
fully  to  take.  But  under  it  the  play  of  minds,  the  approach 
of  men  and  women  to  each  other  was  good:  justified  the 
forms  and  the  conversations.  He  was  no  creative  genius  to 
revolutionize  society.  When  David  had  succeeded  in  finding 
a  more  satisfactory  way  for  friends  to  share  their  thoughts, 
he  would  be  happy.  Until  then  .  .  . 

"But  Tom — why  did  you,  why  did  you  have  to  make  up 
stories  that  aren't  so?" 

It  was  difficult  for  David  to  ask  this.  All  his  being  and 
courage  were  summoned  to  the  effort.  WThy  should  he  need 
his  courage? 

Tom  walked  quietly  on.  David  felt  his  vibrance.  Either 
he  was  in  wrath  or  in  pain.  "So  that  is  it?"  Again  he  was 
silent. 


THE  DARK  MOTHER 

At  last:  "David,  my  friend,"  in  a  low  still  tone,  utterly 
changed  from  before.  "Davie,  you  make  me  worry  for  you. 
This  is  not  a  mere  lack  of  a  sense  of  humor.  This  is  some 
thing  deeper." 

He  went  on  quietly.  His  words  cut  into  David  like  curved 
knives.  Silently,  David  resisted.  But  the  points  of  attack 
were  too  many.  Attack  whirled  about  him.  .  .  . 

David  was  always  looking  for  faults  in  him,  doubting  his 
honor  and  his  word.  Why?  Had  he  so  little  faith  in  his 
friend?  Let  David  tell  him,  had  he  given  him  cause  to 
believe  the  first  ill  thing  about  him  vagrant  in  his  mind? 
David  shifted  to  answer.  Tom  was  attacking  elsewhere.  .  .  . 
David  had  no  sense  of  proportion.  He  seemed  to  take  from 
his  remarks  nothing  but  sources  for  quarrel.  Or  was  it  un 
willing  rather  than  unable?  David  was  sure  he  could  here 
give  satisfactory  answer.  He  was  perhaps  too  serious  and 
dull:  he  took  everything  Tom  said  so  deep  to  heart!  No 
cause  for  anger,  really.  Tom  had  veered  far.  .  .  .  Oh,  this 
was  no  exception.  There  were  many  things.  The  truth  was 
David  thought  only  of  himself:  David  was  selfish. 

"Why  should  you  always  sit  in  judgment  on  me?  Suppos 
ing  I  began  this  trick  with  you  of  weighing  your  deeds  and 
your  words  to  see  what  direct  pleasure  they  brought  to  me, 
as  a  miser  might  sift  dirt  to  find  the  grains  of  gold?  Do 
you  really  think  I  couldn't?" 

A  list.  .  .  .  The  other  evening,  when  Tom  had  had  a  head 
ache,  David  had  gone  around  smoking  and  whistling.  Did 
David  recall  the  time  Tom  had  brought  him  his  dinner? 
And  the  pique  of  David  because  Tom  could  not  join  him  and 
Cornelia  on  some  insignificant  walk.  As  if  Tom  had  broken 
a  tryst.  How  David  had  his  silences  for  a  week,  because  of 
things  like  that.  Did  David  perhaps  remember  how  he  had 
honored  Tom's  desire  to  see  him  on  his  return  from  his  vaca 
tion?  honored  it  by  dragging  a  dull  outsider  along  for  dinner. 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  209 

Let  David  think  of  himself  wiring  so  to  Tom.  Perhaps  he 
thought  Tom's  silence  meant  he  was  not  hurt  that  time  when 
he  broke  their  theater  date  because  he  had  forgotten  it  was 
Lois'  birthday.  .  .  . 

"But  you  said  you  could  easily  find  some  one  else." 
"Yes,  David.  I  am  not  like  you.  I  was  afraid,  if  I  made 
it  hard  for  you,  I  might  spoil  your  evening.  I  put  you  at 
ease.  The  truth  is,  the  tickets  went  to  waste.  Yes,  both  of 
them.  I  had  set  my  mind  on  that  evening  belonging  to  us. 
Do  you  think  I  cared  most  about  seeing  Annie  Russell?  I 
did  not  choose  to  go  with  some  one  else,  on  the  occasion  when 
I  had  chosen  to  go  with  you.  That  night,  if  you  want  to 
know,  I  sat  in  the  Library  of  the  Bar  Association  and  read 
law.  It  was  not  my  sense  of  justice  to  spoil  your  evening 
which  you  had  chosen  to  spend  with  your  cousin  Lois,  because 
you  had  chosen  to  spoil  mine." 

"You  know  that  isn't  fair!  You  know  I  went  to  the 
Deanes,  because  I  had  to.  Out  of  a  sense  of  duty." 

"You  have  a  sense  of  duty  toward  your  frivolous  cousins; 
none  toward  your  friend.     I  admire  your  distinctions." 
"But,  Tom,  they  would  all  have  been  insulted!" 
"Whether  I  was  insulted  had  no  importance.  .  .  ." 
So   it   went.     David   was   inexorably   and    forever   in   the 
wrong. 

"Your  cousins,  your  uncle,  your  aunt.  I  am  to  judge  you 
care  more  for  them  than  for  me.  They  mean  more  to  you. 
Doubtless  their  ideas,  also." 

He  flayed  David's  smugness:  his  cowardice:  his  failure  to 
grow  up.  David's  sentiment  was  perfunctory:  his  sensibili 
ties  were  dull:  he  had  no  recognition  of  what  was  going  on  in 
the  minds  and  hearts  of  those  who  should  have  been  dear 
to  him.  Loving  meant  taking.  Tom  flung  him  dolorously 
down  to  a  level  with  that  cousin  whose  company  he  had 
preferred  and  loyalty  to  whom,  as  against  Tom,  he  had 


210  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

elected.     David  followed  by  the  side  of  his  tormentor,  as  by 
the  side  of  fate.  .  .  . 

Near  where  they  lived  was  a  little  Square.  It  lay  blue 
beneath  the  green  haze  of  the  lamplights.  It  was  timid  there 
under  the  sweep  of  the  City.  The  buildings  and  the  high 
flare  of  movement  over  the  night  made  it  deep  like  a  well. 
Tom  and  David  paced  round  it.  Their  steps  were  harsh  to 
David  as  if  in  dissonance  to  the  Square's  sweet  reticence. 
They  knew  they  must  have  this  out  ere  they  passed  through 
the  door. 

A  dull  weight  was  on  David.  The  crystal  night  was  black 
and  through  the  blackness  pain  flashed  like  lightning.  All 
this  was  within  him.  About  all  this  was  he,  numb  and  unable 
to  feel  himself.  He  knew  the  dark  by  the  lightning. 

It  was  not  the  sense  of  wrong  that  made  him  suffer.  It 
was  the  impediment  to  that  sense.  Had  he  been  able  to 
are  noble  and  I  am  unworthy,"  it  would  have  been  easeful  and 
sweet.  He  had  great  longing  to  do  just  this.  It  was  the 
something  hindering  him  that  hurt. 

Why  was  it?  He  had  no  answer  to  Tom.  One  by  one, 
his  objections  had  disappeared  as  he  voiced  them — his  ob 
jections  to  Tom.  Was  it  perhaps  that  he  was  proud  and  vain 
— not  big  enough  to  avow  his  faults?  Oh,  if  it  was  but  that! 
And  then,  the  hateful  alternative  that  blocked  nis  emotions. 
For  was  it,  perhaps,  that  he  had  not  really  voiced  his  objec 
tions?  .  .  .  that  all  of  these  words  were  far  from  the  true 
misgivings? 

David  did  not  know.  He  knew  that  at  that  moment  he 
yearned  to  be  fully  convinced,  to  be  convinced  that  he  was 
fully  wrong.  He  needed  to  force  himself.  His  mind  told 
him  Tom  was  right.  His  heart  willed  Tom  be  right.  Let 
Tom  be  sincere  and  the  perfect  friend:  let  him  be  the  lacker! 
His  mind  argued,  his  heart  sang  for  this  sweeter  way.  They 
forced  him  through  the  forms  of  acquiescence.  .  .  .  Some- 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  211 

thing  neither  mind  nor  heart  could  not,  would  not  submit: 
waved  frantic  and  helpless  against  all  the  world.  This,  the 
bleak  hurt  in  David. 

The  battle  was  manifestly  over. 

They  stood  in  the  hall  of  their  flat. 

Tom  was  smiling.  Tom  suffered  also.  In  his  smile,  as  he 
put  forth  his  hand,  was  a  plea  for  forgiveness. 

In  that  gesture,  Tom  spoke  his  deepest  truth.  He  had 
been  indeed  on  the  defensive.  Attacking  David,  he  had 
fought  for  himself:  fought  for  his  place  in  the  heart  of  his 
friend:  fought  to  cover  from  David  and  from  himself  the 
flinching  part  of  him  which  shrilled  and  manoeuvered  for 
attention,  plotted  for  power.  With  his  soul  sick  in  revolt. 
David's  rebuke  was  the  rebuke  and  call  of  his  own  nature. 
Since  David  embodied  this,  Tom  needed  him,  needed  him  to 
love  him:  also,  since  David  embodied  this,  Tom  needed  to 
destroy  him. 

In  the  silence  of  the  hall,  the  true  Tom  spoke.  As  if  he 
had  said:  "I  have  said  nothing.  You  are  my  better  self, 
my  deeper  self.  Stay  near  to  me.  Forgive  me." 

David  saw  his  gesture.  He  understood  that  it  was  sincere. 
He  could  not  read  its  context.  He  needed  no  more  than  that 
it  was  sincere. 

A  sweet  flood  suddenly  was  over  him:  the  certainty  for 
which  he  had  thirsted. 

With  both  hands  he  took  the  hand  of  Tom.  He  held  it 
dose.  His  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  It  was  David  who 
spoke:  " Forgive  me!"  i 

In  the  morning,  David  awoke  full  of  weariness. 
Tom  bounded  bright  from  his  bed. 

At  breakfast  he  was  loquacious.     He  teased  Mrs.  Lario. 
He  had  long  spells  of  laughter  over  his  attempts  at  Italian. 
The  heavy  woman  waited  on   them  silently   and  let  his 


212  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

pleasantries  rebound  from  her  like  rubber  balls.  She  was 
devoted  to  her  "wonderful  Mr.  Rennard." 

"Let  us  get  David  to  speak  Italian,"  he  said.  "David  is 
altogether  too  provincial."  He  threw  out  the  terms  he  had 
picked  up  as  if  he  were  pelting  David  with  them.  David 
stirred  languidly.  He  was  full  of  sleep. 

"Well,  I'm  off."  Tom  jumped  up,  before  David  had  fin 
ished.  "Have  a  case  to-day  before  Justice  Bayne.  Wish 
me  luck,  Davie.  The  problem  is  to  keep  the  old  fellow 
awake.  Otherwise  I've  no  chance.  If  he  sleeps,  I  lose." 

He  stood  in  the  doorway,  his  eyes  flashed,  and  laughed. 

"You  ought  to  see  him,  Davie,  when  he  falls  asleep  on  the 
Bench!  He  gets  deeper  and  lower — in  his  swivel  chair.  His 
legs  are  always  crossed.  As  he  slides  down,  the  upper  leg 
grates  in  such  a  way  on  the  other  as  to  lift  its  trouser  gradu 
ally  up.  Down  goes  Bayne:  up  goes  the  trouser.  Till  the  leg 
is  bare,  and  the  garter  visible.  There  is  the  Scale  of  Justice 
for  you.  Ha-ha!"  He  was  gone. 

As  he  raced  to  his  elevated  train,  the  last  evening  raced 
with  him.  He  was  going  to  his  Office — to  the  law — into  the 
world. 

"When  Marcia  marries  Van  Ness  she  must  make  me  a 
wedge  into  his  law  business.  I  must  absolutely  manage  that! 
Lomney  and  Rennard,  of  counsel  for  Van  Ness,  Stone  and 
Company.  Gad,  what  a  coup!" 

He  had  no  thought  of  David.  He  had  no  thought  of  him 
self,  save  as  the  instrument  of  his  own  progress.  .  .  . 


SO  the  days  and  the  nights:  the  weeks  and  the  months. 
Tom  direct  toward  his  several  goals;  David  involute 
and  hesitant,  sinking,  it  seemed  to  him,  forever  deeper 
from  mastery  of  self  and  from  some  vague  light  he  yearned 
for.  Each  of  his  revolts  from  Tom  had  the  same  ending: 
found  him  contrite  and  dedicated  to  his  own  unworthiness. 
David  did  what  his  friend  wanted.  Even  to  the  extent  that 
when  he  was  with  Cornelia  he  came  away  disillusioned.  He 
patronized  Cornelia.  He  evolved  a  superficial  concord  with 
his  relatives  and  their  friends  that  left  him  free  and  fitted 
Tom's  measure  of  the  way  to  handle  such  useful,  lower  factors 
in  one's  life.  He  went  with  Tom's  friends  when  Tom  took 
him  along.  His  work  downtown  was  satisfactory.  He  was 
industrious,  tactful,  busy.  He  was  not  happy. 

"Perhaps,"  he  said  to  himself,  "perhaps  I  do  not  give  my 
self  enough  to  all  these  things." 

He  looked  at  his  life  and  was  amazed  to  find  how  little 
he  did,  even  how  little  he  went  out,  of  his  own  accord. 

Yet,  his  uncle  said  to  him:  "My  boy,  I  am  delighted  with 
you.  Do  you  know  what  you  have?  You  have  imagination. 
I  am  beginning  to  realize  already  on  my  investment  of  you. 
Come  up,  can  you,  this  evening?  Aunt  Lauretta  has  asked 
the  whole  lot  of  Tibbetts." 

He  saw  Cornelia  with  fair  frequence.  She  never  asked 
him  to  come:  and  yet  how  happy  she  was  when  he  was  there! 
She  disturbed  him  not  at  all.  She  let  him  go  his  way.  She 
came  seldom  to  their  flat.  But  she  was  getting  somber,  it 
seemed  to  David.  Older  as  well.  The  glow  of  her  great  eyes 

213 


214  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

had  been  a  virtue  in  her  homeliness.  If  they  faded,  she  would 
be  ugly.  Sometimes  David  thought  that  they  were  fading. 

"Don't  forget,"  Tom  said,  "Cornelia  is  past  thirty." 

But  aside  from  these  rather  bleak  activities,  David  found 
himself  empty.  He  had  no  way  of  making  joy  and  sharp 
ness  from  his  world's  encounters. 

When  he  reflected,  he  was  inclined  to  blame  his  dullness. 
"I  am  stupid!"  he  thumped  himself  with.  And  he  reflected 
more.  He  decided  to  change.  He  did  not  know  in  this  very 
decision  the  kernel  of  what  he  sought.  Having  resolved  to 
change,  he  was  changed  already. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  new  year  blossoming.  It  had  been  an 
unusually  severe  winter.  All  winters  in  New  York  are  un 
usually  severe,  and  most  summers.  New  Yorkers  have  no 
memory  for  their  chief  source  of  conversation:  a  fact  that 
serves  to  keep  it  green.  But  now  came  occasional  mild  days 
colored  blue  like  the  sky,  keyed  low  like  the  clouds  that 
dawdled  over  the  City.  The  great  town  was  no  longer  an 
imprisoned  foe  underneath  the  air.  It  went  forth  and  the 
air  and  the  town  joined  forces.  David  walked  the  streets 
with  his  coat  flung  wide  so  the  breeze  could  seek  him  out 
and  thaw  those  crannies  of  himself  that  had  been  frigid  and 
asleep. 

He  made  several  excursions  to  the  country — alone.  They 
proved  abortive.  He  found  it  painful  to  reach  the  drowsy 
earth  with  his  drowsy  mind.  And  yet  the  earth's  call  was 
clear,  now  that  the  buds  stood  hard  on  the  hard  wood.  He 
could  not  respond.  He  could  not  keep  from  trying  to  re 
spond.  A  strain. 

There  were  dinners  and  theater-parties  with  Caroline  Lord. 
But  one  day  David  found  in  himself  the  courage  to  decide 
that  he  detested  her.  That  this  strapping,  full-blown  woman 
should  take  the  airs  of  a  secluded  virgin  was  ill  enough:  but 
that,  with  all  her  experience  of  life,  she  should  display  a 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  215 

virgin's  judgments  was  unbearable.  Was  Miss  Lord  perhaps 
trying  to  impress  him  with  her  endless  thrumming  on  respect 
ability,  her  hymned  paeans  to  the  moral  outlook?  Why 
should  she  care  so  much  for  the  standards  of  wealth,  who  was 
forever  insisting  that  her  family  had  been  penniless  but  of 
high  social  value?  Either  this  woman  was  ashamed  of  her 
own  intelligence  and  enterprise  or  else  she  thought  David 
would  like  to  deem  her  so.  David  was  not  sure.  Soon  he 
did  not  care.  Her  vigorous  solicitude  for  the  manners  and 
customs  which  she  assumed  were  theirs  had  an  offensive  note. 
It  made  David  silent  and  reserved.  It  left  the  field  to  Miss 
Lord.  So  that  the  efficient  lady  preened  herself  and  spread 
herself  and  paying  no  true  attention  to  her  friend  had  no 
idea  of  her  effect  upon  him. 

Tom  laughed  when  he  told  him  about  her.  David  found 
that  there  was  no  difficulty  in  speaking  to  Tom  about  Miss 
Lord. 

"But  why  should  you  expect  something  better  of  her?"  Tom 
asked  him. 

"Well,  she  is  capable " 

"Bosh,  my  dear  man.  Look  at  her  straight.  The  only 
strength  she  has,  I  am  convinced,  is  the  strength  of  Deane 
and  Company — a  strength  she  sucks."  Tom  had  met  her 
once.  Since  then,  he  had  skillfully  avoided  all  David's  efforts 
to  make  him  join  them  some  night  at  dinner.  "Now  tell  me 
frankly  can  you  imagine  that  lady,  with  her  advertised  vir 
ginity,  her  mincing  mind  and  her  stiff  sense  of  right  and 
wrong,  careering  in  open  battle?  Don't  you  see  that  she  is 
something  only  in  her  position?  Her  substance  comes  from 
the  fields  whose  produce  she  helps  distribute  at  a  profit." 

"She  seems  to  be  forever  bowing  to  judgments  like  those 
of  Aunt  Lauretta." 

"Of  course,  since  she  gets  her  keep  from  the  same  place." 

David  had  many  evenings  alone.    He  found  he  liked  them. 


2i6  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

He  had  never  been  included  in  more  than  a  tithe  of  the  whirl 
ing  activities  of  Tom  who,  now,  had  added  politics  to  his 
program.  Tom  was  a  member  of  Tammany  Hall. 

"The  young  men  are  profiting  by  the  folly  of  the  reform 
ers,"  was  the  way  Tom  put  it.  "They  have  learnt,  Davie 
dear,  as  I  hope  you  shall  learn  also,  generally  speaking,  that 
you  can't  win  a  fight  without  joining  with  your  enemy.  We 
have  done  with  kid-glove  pats  at  corruption.  We  are  going 
to  clean  up  the  undesirable  elements  of  the  Democratic  Party 
by  first  entering  their  stronghold.  That  is  why  we  are  going 
into  Tammany." 

David  had  never  managed  to  believe  in  the  monopolized 
purity  of  the  Republican  Party,  although  his  uncle  had  spent 
some  breath  upon  him  to  that  purpose.  Largely,  he  was  in 
different  and  neutral.  He  had  a  sense  of  guilt  in  his  organic 
ignorance  about  such  vital  matters.  He  asked: 

"Is  your  partner,  Mr.  Lomney,  also  in  Tammany?" 

"Lord  no!"  Tom  exclaimed. 

And  there  it  was — the  incomprehensible  that  was  forever 
cropping  out!  Why,  in  view  of  what  Tom  had  just  assured 
him  about  Tammany  Hall,  this  protest  of  denial  regarding 
Mr.  Lomney? 

"Lomney  is  a  Democrat,"  Tom  went  on.  "A  Gold-demo 
crat,  of  course.  But  he  has  no  party  affiliations  of  a  direct 
sort." 

"What  other  sort  are  there,  Tom?" 

"There  are  the  really  important  sort,"  Tom  smiled.  "We 
are  vitally  concerned  in  certain  franchise  concessions:  traction 
and  gas  and  the  like.  See?" 

"Is  that  the  reason  Mr.  Lomney  must  not  belong  to  Tam 
many  Hall?" 

"That  is  the  reason,  rather,  why  I  should,"  Tom  paused. 
"We  are  in  where  we  should  be,  and  out  where  we  should 
be.  Understand?" 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  217 

Emphatically,  David  did  not.  All  he  could  make  of  this 
party  business  was  that  it  was  a  kind  of  game.  The  nation's 
money-boxes  had  highly  veneered  and  colored  surfaces.  The 
Republican  was  more  polished,  the  Democratic  had  more 
color.  If  one  said,  "I  believe  in  the  blue  and  gold  design"  did 
one  mean,  "I  get  into  the  coffers  by  the  side  that  is  painted 
blue  and  gold?"  David  had  these  little  speculations  and  was 
properly  ashamed  of  them.  He  knew  they  were  the  sure  con 
sequence  of  his  being  unable  to  understand. 

When  he  dined  alone  he  was  least  troubled.  There  was  a 
Hungarian  restaurant  he  particularly  liked  because  of  the 
delicious  thick  soups  and  the  beer  and  the  caressing  music. 
He  went  there  often  and  ate  perhaps  more  than  he  should, 
and  sat  about  drinking  his  beer  very  soberly  and  slowly, 
puffing  at  the  superb  English  pipe  Cornelia  had  given  him 
for  his  birthday.  It  had  an  amber  stem  and  the  one  flaw  in 
the  delight  of  smoking  was  that  he  needed  to  be  careful  not 
to  bite  it  through. 

On  this  evening,  as  usual,  he  was  not  alone  at  his  table. 
At  this  sort  of  place,  where  a  sumptuous  meal  cost  forty  cents, 
one  could  expect  no  more  than  one's  own  seat  at  the  board. 
Mostly,  men  came  and  bowed  stiffly  for  permission  to  sit  down 
and  were  no  sooner  seated  than  they  forgot  him  altogether  in 
their  torrents  of  strange  words.  Now  came  a  man  with  his 
lady.  David  listened  to  them  through  the  meal  with  an  in 
terest  that  might  conceivably  have  flagged  had  he  been  able 
to  understand  the  Magyar  tongue.  But  the  complete  veil 
over  their  words  made  watching  their  faces  and  their  gestures, 
noting  the  gait  of  their  voices,  a  sort  of  game.  It  sharpened 
their  personalities  as  these  revealed  them,  and  as  the  com 
munity  of  language  must  have  dulled  them.  David  took 
delight  trying  to  break  up  the  endless  turgid  flow  into  words 
and  sentences.  Mostly,  he  had  delight  in  watching  the 
woman. 


218  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

She  was  a  bursting  healthy  creature,  not  yet  thirty  but 
ripe  and  matronly  and  at  her  ease.  She  wore  a  pink  gauze 
waist  over  a  covering  of  creamy  silk  that  lashed  about  the 
rondures  of  her  breast  as  if  its  task  were  desperate  against 
the  fullness  of  all  that  flesh.  She  was  not  fat  oppressively. 
Her  form  was  impetuous  against  the  insipid  continence  of  silk 
and  satin.  Her  cheeks  and  her  lips  were  almost  equally  red. 
They  were  in  perpetual  motion  with  food  or  with  laughter — 
at  times  with  both.  Her  hands  were  short  and  slight:  a 
wedding  ring  and  two  obtrusive  diamonds  overloaded  the 
fingers.  She  seemed  not  to  mind  the  floating  gaze  of  David. 
She  talked  with  greater  lubrication  when  his  warm  eyes  were 
on  her.  David,  listening  a  little  as  at  times  to  music,  had 
the  sense  of  clover  fields  astir  with  bees:  cows  brooding  in 
heat  and  the  smell  of  milk  like  mist  upon  the  air.  His 
pleasure  of  this  buxom  woman,  whose  fine  hands  showed  her 
sensitive  as  well,  was  like  his  pleasure  of  warm  spring  days  in 
his  boyhood,  when  indeed  the  women  had  been  drawn  and 
dry  enough  but  the  fields  very  like  this  amiable  matron,  mur 
muring  strange  words  across  his  table. 

Most  of  the  men  and  women  he  had  known  bore  no  kin 
ship  even  to  the  soil  they  labored.  This  woman  seemed  a 
part  of  earth.  It  was  a  new  sense  for  David.  He  leaned 
back,  sweetly  astir  with  his  mood.  It  was  over  his  loneli 
ness  like  a  miracle,  like  a  sudden  bloom  of  sun  and  meadow 
in  the  dank  streets  of  the  City.  It  glowed  just  so  bright 
and  wondrous,  it  was  just  so  unreal.  .  .  .  He  and  the  strange 
woman  of  whom  he  had  no  desire  became  one:  there  was  a 
flower  in  this  subtle  penetration  of  her  health  and  of  his 
mood.  About  them  the  heavy  clouds  of  smoke  and  the  thick 
waves  of  words,  all  the  heaving  clamor  of  the  room  was  like 
the  shadow  beyond  the  burn  of  a  candle.  And  beyond  still 
farther,  the  sudden  laceration  of  the  cars,  the  pound  of  the 
elevated  trains,  the  wreathing  weight  of  the  bleak  City.  .  .  . 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  219 

In  the  heart  of  it  all  the  single  being  of  David.  He  took  in 
fragrance  of  this  outlandish  woman  as  a  bee  sucks  honey. 
He  was  alone  with  fertile  fields.  .  .  . 

He  got  up,  he  went  to  the  telephone  in  the  side  office  of 
the  cafe,  he  called  Constance  Bardale. 

"This  is  David  Markand.  I  want  to  come  to  see  you  to 
night." 

She  seemed  to  hesitate:  then:  "Yes.    You  may  come." 

He  had  not  seen  her  at  all  in  two  months.  He  had  never 
called  on  her  alone.  He  had  met  her  a  few  times.  But 
always  she  had  that  forbidding  smile  and  the  sinuous  smile 
he  had  known  first  was  hidden  away.  It  was  as  if  she  pitied 
him  for  a  certain  deep  defect.  She  never  sought  him  out. 
When  they  spoke,  she  had  nothing  to  say.  She  had  not  again 
asked  him  to  call. 

Now,  all  at  once,  though  five  minutes  before  he  had  not 
dreamed  of  it,  he  was  to  be  with  her  alone!  There  was  a 
sharp  tremor  through  him  as  if  he  longed  to  leap  but  the 
time  was  not  yet,  so  that  he  was  impeded:  a  tremor  like 
that  of  a  race  horse  at  the  post. 

He  found  her  standing  in  a  little  study  he  had  not  seen 
before.  The  maid  shut  the  door  behind  him.  A  clouded 
room  in  which  two  lamps  pendant  with  gray  silk  shades  cast 
a  languid  light.  Herself  within  it.  They  were  somehow 
close,  wherever  the}^  stood  in  the  thick  room.  She  wore  a 
straight  and  filmy  housegown  of  lavender  caught  loosely  back 
over  her  narrow  hips  by  a  golden  girdle.  The  braided  cord 
fell  loose  and  heavy  in  front.  The  room  was  a  place  where 
glowed  her  gowned  body.  David  was  conscious  how  he  was 
placeless  within  it. 

She  took  away  her  hand  at  once,  sat  down.  She  left  him 
to  find  a  seat.  She  had  said  nothing.  He  could  see  her 
teeth  and  how  she  was  faintly  smiling,  and  that  her  teeth 
were  cutting  white  against  the  cloud  of  her  skin.  Her  shoul- 


220  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

ders  were  sharp  and  clear  in  the  faint  stuff  of  her  gown.  He 
could  have  said  to  himself:  "She  has  on  that  gown.  It  is  not 
she."  Her  shoulders  were  articulate  with  little  movements 
saying  as  much.  Her  arms  came  full  from  the  folds  of  her 
drooping  half-sleeves:  her  arms  denied  in  their  luxuriance  the 
terse  cut  of  her  shoulders. 

She  left  words  to  David.  She  did  not  help  him  find  them. 
David  took  long  selecting  a  place  to  sit.  He  took  a  chair  and 
moved  it  and  moved  it  again.  He  had  to  be  in  the  right  place 
for  sitting:  for  talking,  also. 

She  watched  him,  with  an  uncertain  pleasure  whose  sug 
gestion  helped  him  since  there  was  no  hint  he  should  hurry. 

"It  was  very  impetuous  of  me,  I  guess,  to  want  to  see  you 
all  of  a  sudden." 

"You*  see  how  much  I  mind.  .  .  .  Then  before  to-night  you 
did  not  want  to  see  me?" 

"Did  I  say  that?" 

"I  think  so." 

"I  did  not,  somehow,  think  of  coming." 

"Is  that  the  same  thing?" 

David  paused.  "I  think  not.  I  think  if  I  had  never 
wanted  to  come  before  I  could  not  so  suddenly  have  wanted 
to,  now." 

"The  wish  burst  out  to  the  surface?"  She  seemed  to  be 
calmly  annotating  him. 

"That  must  be  it,"  David  spoke  pensively. 

"Then,  you  must  answer  me  two  questions.  .  .  .  Why 
didn't  you  want  to  know  before  to-night,  that  you  wanted  to 
come?  And  what  brought  you  to  knowing  at  this  particular 
time?" 

She  was  leaning  back  in  her  chair  and  smiling;  it  seemed 
to  David  she  was  leaning  forward  and  with  serious  face.  As 
*f  this  had  been  the  truth,  he  reacted.  He  found  himself 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  221 

withdrawing:  slightly  chilled  at  himself  as  if  he  had  done 
an  extravagant  thing. 

"Is  there  no  such  thing  as  a  mere  whim  or  mood?" 

Constance  Bardale  understood  his  reversal  in  a  flash.  The 
contest  was  on:  his  dull  playing  to  her  hands  was  over.  For 
a  moment  she  had  feared  he  was  going  to  be  sentimental. 
She  was  afraid  of  emotional  words  as  a  priestess  of  a  desecra 
tion  at  her  altar.  Here  he  was,  struggling  away.  Her  de 
light  released  the  energy  of  movement.  A  peal  of  laughter, 
low  like  her  words;  a  somewhat  mental  laughter:  flush  of 
roused  energy  which  in  a  more  serious  contingence  must  have 
turned  into  flight  or  pursuit. 

She  got  up  and  redisposed  herself  on  the  couch.  Her  act 
was  at  once,  in  its  motion,  an  expenditure  of  force  and,  in 
its  specific  nature,  preparation  for  future  outlet.  David  al 
ready  found  in  himself  the  wish  to  go  and  sit  beside  her. 

The  fear,  lest  it  be  the  false  thing  to  do — lest  she  dislike 
it,  rebuke  him,  misunderstand.  Misunderstand  what?  David 
did  not  know,  because  he  found  that  he  did  not  care.  He  sat 
there  now,  measuring  his  wish  to  sit  beside  her  with  what 
was  in  her  eyes — to  find  if  it  fitted. 

They  chatted.  David  knew  less  and  less  what  he  was  say 
ing,  as  he  grew  more  engrossed  in  the  problem  of  his  desire. 
Did  he  dare  go  and  sit  beside  her?  He  found  no  answer 
in  her.  Her  look,  like  what  she  said,  was  oblique  and  opaque. 
She  seemed  impenetrable  to  his  seeking  mind,  but  in  inverse 
ratio  she  seemed  vulnerable  to  his  fleeing  senses.  His  mental 
will  to  measure  the  effect  of  his  coming  to  her  faded  from 
inanition:  his  desire  to  come  was  less  dependent  on  intel 
lectual  assurance. 

He  was  unconscious  of  all  this.  Until,  quiet  and  quick,  he 
was  up  from  his  chair  in  a  silence  and  beside  her.  Nothing 
had  happened.  He  was  dumb  and  he  was  empty,  as  if  this 
coming  close  had  been  a  mere  beginning  after  all  of  what 


222  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

he  was  about:  as  if  he  were  still  upon  his  journey.  Nothing 
had  happened.  David  leaned  over  to  her  face  that  was  at 
profile  from  him.  At  once  she  turned  to  him.  She  gave  him 
her  lips.  Nothing  happened.  He  kissed  her.  He  sat  beside 
her  silent.  The  sense  persisting  of  a  way  half  gone,  of  a 
will  half  done.  He  felt  the  sharp  power  of  her  body  under 
a  frail  gown.  Nothing  had  happened  at  all.  So  he  took 
her  in  his  arms. 

She  was  looking  with  half-shut  eyes  into  her  self.  Her  lips 
were  half  shut.  All  of  her.  He  kissed  her  again.  Experi 
mentally:  he  was  trying  to  find  a  certain  thing.  His  hands 
held  the  warm  stillness  of  her  body:  against  his  hard  breath 
ing  he  had  hidden  softness.  He  kissed  her.  Then,  he  put 
her  away.  His  heart  raced;  his  blood  panted  after  a  sudden 
hunger  and  she  sat  there  smiling.  Nothing  had  happened. 

He  looked  to  where  she  was  through  a  swirl  of  sense. 
What  should  he  do?  What  should  he  say?  How  was  it 
possible  that  she  should  love  him  so  quick?  that  he  had  not 
known  before  this  marvel  of  loving  her? 

He  took  her  hand  and  kissed  its  open  palm.  It  was  cool. 
His  hand  ran  up  the  naked  flesh  of  her  arm,  thirsting,  clamor 
ing.  Then,  he  dropped  it  and  stood  up. 

He  turned  his  back  on  her.  He  paced  the  little  room. 
Once,  twice:  over  and  over.  He  stopped.  He  looked  at  her 
now  as  if  he  had  never  looked  at  her  before.  He  was  a  little 
way  from  her.  An  abyss,  an  eternity  of  way  which  magic 
alone  could  empower  him  to  pass. 

Was  he  not  friends  with  magic?     Something  spoke  in  him: 

"You  have  only  to  step  forward  and  take  her."  He  could 
not  believe  it.  He  had  never  touched  her.  Magic,  magic.  .  .  . 

She  was  a  little  huddled  on  the  couch.  A  faint  flush  on 
her  cheek  and  her  brow.  Her  hands  half  clasped  on  her  lap/ 
Her  sharp  shoulders  rounded  forward.  She  was  magical  and 
helpless.  David  was  strong  against  her.  A  pity  came  to 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  223 

him  that  she  was  so  sweet  and  so  resistless  beneath  his 
towering  brutality.  It  was  the  pity  that  was  sweet  and 
was  resistless.  Feeling  aggrieved  for  her  that  she  sat  there 
prostrate,  he  felt  that  he  forgave  her,  that  he  loved  her,  and 
how  by  this  love  she  must  at  once  be  saved.  It  was  needful 
to  go  forth  and  hold  her  for  her  own  sake.  Lest  she  believe 
he  had  sullied  her,  lest  she  fear  he  did  not  know  what  this 
was  between  them.  To  herself  as  to  him  it  was  needful  that 
what  had  come  to  pass  be  good. 

He  no  longer  saw  her.  He  was  full  of  the  wonder  of  her 
sweetness  and  of  his  pity.  He  was  full  of  the  wonder  of 
that  she  was  a  woman  and  given  up  to  him.  He  drew  all 
of  her  against  him.  .  .  . 

He  knew  he  wa5  walking  homeward.  The  familiar  streets 
whipped  past,  the  world  swung  like  a  sea  over  the  horizon 
and  swept  backward  above  his  head.  He  walked  because  it 
had  been  impossible  to  sit  cramped  and  still  in  a  car.  He 
had  to  race  with  his  emotions,  else  something  had  broken 
in  him.  Calmer  he  said  to  himself: 

"Why  go  home?     You're  not  sleepy." 

He  did  not  know  where  to  go.  A  garish  coldness,  the 
rancid  cutting  of  alcohol  across  the  sidewalk — a  saloon.  It 
appealed  to  him  as  a  challenge  to  an  ebullient  giant.  He 
entered.  He  needed  to  whet  the  brilliant  splendor  of  his 
mood  against  what  was  most  sordid  and  drear  in  all  the  world. 
He  went  up  to  the  bar  and  ordered  a  drink  and  let  it  stand, 
unable  to  bring  its  desecration  to  his  consecrated  lips.  He  was 
throbbing  gently  as  if  he  had  run  and  won  a  race: — these 
were  remnants  of  energy  to  be  disposed  of. 

The  place  reeled  a  bit  and  then  closed  in  on  him.  Several 
fellows  sagged  at  his  side  by  the  bar.  One  was  talking: 

"I  guv'  him  hell.    Y'ort  to  'a'  seen  me  guv'  him  hell." 

The  barkeeper  went  over  the  bar  with  a  wet  rag  and  it 


224  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

gleamed.  He  looked  in  the  mirror  at  his  thick  face  above 
the  serried  bottles  with  undisguised  affection.  He  took  a 
comb  from  his  white  vest  and  parted  his  hair  afresh  in  its 
oily  middle.  Re  loved  that  face.  He  leaned  back  and  was 
lost  in  love  and  contemplation.  Through  a  side  door,  two 
women  loose  over  a  naked  table.  Their  faces  were  paste, 
their  eyes  were  red-rimmed  above  two  little  glasses  of  whiskey. 

"I  love  her.  I  love  her.  I  must  love  her.  Why  does  she 
love  me?  Why  do  I  never  understand?"  The  wonder  of 
the  world  was  as  remote  from  his  mind  as  his  thoughts  from 
this  naked  room  with  its  hard  wood  and  faces,  its  brittle 
bottles. 

One  of  the  women  tried  to  catch  his  eye.  She  was  half 
nodding  with  drink  and  disgust.  A  rotten  night.  David  saw 
her  examining  herself  in  the  mirror.  Her  face  was  suddenly 
sweet.  She  opened  her  coat.  She  folded  in  and  downward 
the  starched  corners  of  her  waist  so  that  her  neck  showed  and 
the  gap  of  her  bosom.  She  looked  up  and  smiled  at  David. 
She  called  for  more  drink  and  beat  her  hand  in  supplement 
to  her  call  against  the  table.  David  left.  Her  flesh  had 
sounded  dead  against  the  shrill-varnished  wood. 

Tom  was  propped  up  with  a  book,  in  his  black  dressing- 
gown. 

"Hello,  Davie."  He  looked  up  but  did  not  move.  "Have 
you  read  Gulliver's  Travels  since  you  were  a  kid?  Take  my 
advice  and  do!  How  that  man  Swift  must  have  loved  life 
to  have  hated  men  so!" 

David  thought  this  was  nonsense.  "What  is  there  to  hate 
in  a  thing  we  love?" 

Tom  laughed.  "You  talk  like  a  god,  David.  Are  you  a 
god?  Hate  does  not  enter  into  love  only  where  there  is 
paradisal  satisfaction.  To  what  mortal  is  that  granted?" 
He  watched  David  stand  pensively,  glowing.  With  a  search 
ing  smile:  "Also  hate  may  not  enter  where  there  is  complete 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  225 

delusion."    David    started.     "To    have    perfection    in    one's 
love,  one  must  be  a  god.    To  have  complete  delusion  one 
must  be — an  ass.    Are  you  a  god,  Davie?" 
"Good  night,"  said  David.  .  .  . 

The  following  evening,  he  was  not  to  be  with  her.  She  had 
so  many  engagements.  But  she  was  going  to  break  one  so 
he  could  come,  only  three  evenings  later. 

Through  three  days  David  went,  repeating  to  himself  that 
he  loved  Constance  Bardale.  Needful  it  was  to  his  peace 
that  he  be  persuaded  of  this.  Good  it  would  be  for  the  new 
hunger  of  his  life — to  spread  forth,  make  fresh  dwellings  for 
his  spirit — if  this  was  true.  Yet  all  that  had  occurred  was 
sudden  and  strange.  All  this  woman  was  remote.  This  was 
why  he  had  so  fast  retreated  from  Tom  on  that  first  night. 
Tom  was  very  real:  in  his  light,  the  new  fire  in  himself  did 
not  appear.  He  was  sure  that  he  loved:  a  transfiguration 
had  been  made  in  him:  the  future  of  Constance  Bardale  must 
in  some  inscrutable  way  be  one  with  his.  Yet  he  could  not 
talk  of  this  joyous  revelation  to  his  best  friend.  Indeed,  with 
his  best  friend  all  of  it  was  dim.  He  did  not  solve  the 
strangeness  of  this.  He  said  to  himself:  "It  is  all  too  mysteri 
ous  yet  to  be  spoken  of.  Tom  would  not  believe  me.  He 
would  ask  me  what  had  happened  to  make  me  know."  Had 
David  these  three  days  seen  Cornelia,  he  could  have  spoken. 
He  did  not  know  this  since  he  had  no  plan  to  see  Cornelia. 
He  remained  with  his  secret.  Wondering,  trying  to  wonder 
about  it,  his  thoughts  reeled  in  a  dance  with  his  upstarting 
senses.  He  could  not  even  clearly  wonder  about  it  all. 

The  conviction  was  there,  however:  he  was  bound  by  a 
sacred  tie  to  Constance  Bardale.  He  made  great  what  was 
between  this  woman  and  himself  because  he  needed  it  great. 
Also  he  made  it  great  because  he  needed  thereby  to  justify 
it  to  himself.  Was  it  not  plain  how  great  all  this  must  be 


226  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

to  Constance  Bardale?  He  knew  so  little  of  her  ways  that 
he  had  no  sense  even  of  ignorance  about  her.  She  was  a  lady. 
She  was  one  fortunate  in  every  circumstance:  handsome,  intel 
ligent,  rich:  not  one  to  alloy  or  to  misprize  her  value.  This 
lovely  lady  had  given  herself  to  him.  A  madness  must  have 
moved  her.  That  madness  love.  Or  perhaps  something  still 
more  sacred:  belief  in  his  love,  the  desire  in  her  heart  that  it 
should  be  requited.  She  had  miraculously  cared  for  him. 
But  even  this  explained  little — explained  not  at  all  her  sud 
den  discard  of  those  womanly  reserves  that  must  be  her 
nature,  the  swiftness  of  her  bestowal.  This  could  be  explained 
alone  by  his  own  love's  plea  upon  her.  She  had  felt  and 
answered  his  love,  before  he  was  aware  of  it.  She  had  done 
as  women  always  by  some  mystery:  given  blindly  where  she 
was  needed,  not  asked,  not  judged, — responded  in  faith  and 
a  sweet  helplessness  to  the  cry  of  man. 

And  all  his  life — whatever  she  wanted  of  his  life — he  owed 
to  repay  her. 

Feeling  his  mighty  debt  to  Constance  Bardale,  David 
thought  of  his  mother;  and  of  his  mother  with  his  father 
that  last  dim  year  he  had  lived,  and  of  his  questionings  on 
birth  and  death  and  love.  What  he  had  seen  and  been  taught 
then,  the  facts  of  his  life  had  not  disturbed  since  they  were 
simply  heaped  upon  it.  His  mother  had  great  pleasure  of  her 
son.  When  he  was  near  to  her,  her  face  brightened.  When 
he  came  running  and  asked:  "Take  me  with  you,  Mummy,  to 
the  village,"  she  would  drop  her  basket  and  fold  him  in  her 
arms  and  say:  "Put  on  your  leggins,  Boy,  and  you  may 
come."  It  made  her  happy.  Unendingly  to  give  to  him  was, 
in  her  heart,  unendingly  to  receive.  So  David  learned  of 
women:  that  they  are  mothers  and  that  they  hunger  after 
their  children  and  have  great  joy  of  them.  His  mother  loved 
his  father,  but  she  had  no  joy  of  him  at  all.  She  took  care 
of  him,  gave  to  him,  also,  without  stint.  But  she  seemed  to 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  227 

receive  nothing  of  her  bestowal.  She  never  kissed  him,  as 
she  did  David.  When  he  came  into  the  room,  though  she 
was  swift  to  respond  to  his  desires,  it  was  with  heavy  face 
and  heavy  feet.  There  was  more:  his  father  made  hidden 
demands  on  other  women,  took  something  from  them,  took 
what  the  child  had  once  heard  called  "liberties"  with  them. 
For  this,  his  mother  suffered  and  pitied  the  women.  It  was 
"the  poor  girl!"  "How  could  you,  how  could  you,  Adolph!" 
"What  is  going  to  become  of  Emma!"  So  David  learned  of 
women:  that  they  are  the  hunted  of  men  and  have  no  joy^ 
of  them  but  only  sorrow  and  humiliation.  And  David  learned 
of  men:  that  they  can,  in  some  miraculous  way,  make  women 
sacrifice  themselves,  and  love  them,  although  this  love  is  a 
burden  and  a  blight. 

There  had  been  Anne.  She  did  not  disturb  what  he  had 
learned  of  women.  The  self-bestowal  of  woman  was  a  part, 
a  great  part,  of  the  goodness  of  God.  Woman  had  no  need 
save  for  children:  no  joy  save  in  the  bitterness  of  serving. 
Anne  was  there  like  a  sweet  delirious  dream  in  the  fevered 
night.  She  had  lain  beside  him  and  mothered  his  distress; 
she  had  given  him  of  her  strength  to  be  strong  in  the  morning. 
When  she  judged  he  had  had  enough  of  her,  very  calmly,  very 
like  a  mother  weaning  her  child,  she  had  put  him  aside.  All 
of  it  a  sort  of  passionate  nursing:  the  sort  that  the  passionate 
nights  with  their  drain  of  fire  demanded.  Anne  had  always 
been  silent. 

His  heart's  way  of  woman  remained.    In  a  veiled  moment, 
she  came  and  offered  up  her  sweetness  to  the  yearning  of  man. 
A  mystery — a  mystery  that  now  had  come  to  him!     In  the 
flesh.     In  the  lovely  flesh  of  Constance! 
She  received  him  in  the  same  small  room. 
David   was    momently    chilled    by   her   precise    difference 
from  the  image  of  his  three  days'  thoughts.     She  came  up 
to  him  and  let  her  arms  glide  softly  over  his  and  warmed  him. 


228  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

He  looked  down  at  her.  He  saw  how  the  loose  folds  of  her 
cerise  robe  parted  and  fell  from  her  uplifted  elbows:  how, 
underneath,  her  bosom  was  held  tight  in  a  white  band  of  lace. 
He  thought  that  he  might  take  that  lace  away  and  truly  see 
this  bosom,  crush  it  with  his  mouth.  He  could  scarcely  see 
at  all. 

He  checked  himself.  This  was  unworthy  of  him:  unfair 
to  her.  He  began  to  talk.  But  she  smiled  and  came  close  to 
him  again:  she  stopped  his  words  with  her  body.  Her  eyes 
fixed  on  his  with  a  plea  that  he  need  not  talk.  He  tried  to 
tell  of  his  love,  of  his  devotion,  of  his  thanks,  and  she  was 
stiff,  impregnable  to  words.  He  kissed  her,  had  her  body  in 
his  hands,  and  there  she  was  pliant,  singing  with  response. 
So,  soon  she  lay  there  under  his  eyes  and  he  had  forgotten  to 
say  the  things  his  duty  ordered.  .  .  . 

At  last  he  made  a  mighty  effort. 

He  sat  beside  her  on  the  couch.  She  was  cool  and  straight 
beside  him.  She  was  like  a  beach  that  the  tide  had  left  and 
that  the  sun  had  hardened.  Golden-smooth.  Her  breasts 
lay  firm,  her  thighs  rounded  and  fell  like  lovely  scoopings  of 
summer  waves.  She  was  there  like  a  strand  of  the  earth, 
waiting  for  the  tide  to  return  upon  her. 

David  managed  to  speak. 

"Constance  dear,"  he  began.  She  laid  her  hand  on  his  and 
he  clasped  it.  She  seemed  suddenly  afraid.  "Constance,  I 
feel  that  I  have  so  much  that  I  want  to  tell  you.  .  .  .  Con 
stance,  it  is  only  this  that  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart  and 
soul:  that  always "  He  stopped.  There  she  was  stop 
ping  him  again.  She  had  withdrawn  her  hand. 

"Don't,  David!     Don't!"    Her  hand  on  his  mouth. 

He  felt  ashamed,  ashamed  of  their  nakedness  together. 

"You  mustn't  use  that  word  Love  so  lightly,  David." 

He  was  all  pale  inside.     He  felt  that  his  breast  had  sud- 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  229 

denly  caved  in  and  that  his  heart  beat  hurtfully  against  its 
broken  walls. 

"I  do  love  you,  Constance." 

"No  you  don't.     Don't  be  silly,  David." 

"Why?     Don't  you  love  me?" 

It  was  strange  how  little  he  protested.  He  felt  this.  Al 
ready  he  believed  her.  But  if  he  did,  what  was  all  this  be 
tween  them?  What  infamy? 

She  seemed  to  read  his  consternation.  She  lifted  herself 
and  kissed  his  eyes  and  his  hot  dry  lips. 

"You  don't  love  me.  And  I  don't  love  you.  But  we  are. 
very  fond  of  each  other." 

He  was  deeply  ashamed.  He  wanted  to  move  away:  to 
cover  himself.  He  did  not  know  how.  He  did  not  dare  in 
any  way  to  move.  He  sat  there,  fixed  in  contemplation  of 
the  havoc  these  few  words  had  made  of  all  the  structure  of 
his  thoughts:  regarding  the  wreckage  with  dim  eyes,  but 
amazed  most  that  the  wreckage  did  not  move  him  more,  leave 
him  more  empty:  that  life — and  this — should  still  be  possible. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  kiss  me?" 

"Constance!"     It  was  a  cry  of  help  for  his  dreams. 

"You  are  a  darling.  I  shan't  risk  losing  you  by  not  having 
you  know  me  and  yourself  as  we  really  are.  .  .  .  Why,  David 
dear?  Aren't  you  even  fond  of  me?"  She  had  her  arm 
about  him.  "Kiss  me,  then.  There."  She  was  half  laugh 
ing.  She  was  a  bewilderment  of  delight  upon  him.  She  was 
half  laughing  at  him. 

Like  a  mirage,  split  by  a  stroke  of  the  sun,  his  picture  of 
their  love  faded  away.  He  had  not  defended  it.  It  was  no 
more.  Yet  he  was  not  empty.  He  was  less  serious,  less 
loaded  than  before.  It  had  been  a  mirage  of  paradise  in  a 
desert.  It  was  gone.  But  the  desert  through  which  to  trudge 
to  reach  it  was  gone  also.  Here  was  green  earth. 

He  held  her  differently  already.     She  seemed  no  less  happy. 


23o  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

He  was  more  aware  of  herself,  more  intent  on  giving  her 
pleasure.  He  thought  less  of  his  own  heart  and  its  desires. 
He  found  his  own  joy,  now,  in  bringing  joy  to  her.  It  was 
all  marvelous  strange,  he  knew  vaguely  in  the  back  of  his 
head.  He  had  abdicated  loving  her,  she  had  declared  that 
she  did  not  love  him.  Yet  he  was  content,  he  was  happy. 
He  had  been  wrapt  in  the  solemnity  of  his  emotions  like  a 
priest  at  prayer.  Now,  he  was  all  out  of  himself  like  a  boy 
lost  in  his  play.  And  yet  he  seemed  stronger,  more  con 
tained,  fuller  of  life.  He  knew  sometime  he  should  have  to 
think  all  this  out.  .  .  . 

She  took  his  hand  and  led  him  to  a  glass  in  which  he  saw 
their  faces  together.  Hers  was  laughing  quietly.  His  was 
neither  serious  nor  mirthful:  full  of  a  sweet  surprise. 

"Look  at  yourself/'  she  said. 

He  remembered  once  when  he  had  been  a  boy  at  School 
and  he  had  wrestled  long  and  hopelessly  over  a  problem  in 
mathematics.  His  teacher,  of  whom  he  was  very  fond,  came 
and  leaned  over  him  so  that  her  waist  touched  his  shoulder. 
She  made  a  quick  calculation  on  his  paper.  The  problem 
was  solved. 

"There  now.  Wasn't  that  easy?  All  that  fret  and  trou 
ble " 

He  had  felt  a  relieved  gayety  go  through  him:  half  the 
help,  half  the  nearness  of  the  teacher.  He  was  reminded  now. 

"Look  at  yourself,"  she  said.  He  looked.  He  saw  his 
face  like  that  of  a  rather  unknowing  boy  upon  whom  a  good- 
hearted  friend  had  played  a  delicious  joke.  He  was  aware 
of  the  face  of  Constance:  it  was  just  beneath  and  beside  his 
own.  And  it  was  laughing  under  the  passion  of  her  hair.  He 
saw  that  he  was  laughing  also.  .  .  . 

He  was  glad  this  time  to  find  Tom  at  home. 

"My!     My!"    Tom    bantered    from    his    wonted    corner. 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  231 

"You  are  getting  gayer  all  the  time.  What  larks  are  you  up 
to,  anyway?" 

"I  have  been  to  see — Miss  Bardale." 

A  steely  glance  went  through  David. 

"Oh — she."  Tom  spoke.  And  David  knew  that  never, 
never  could  he  speak  of  such  things  to  his  nearest  friend. 
But  he  could  speak  of  some  things. 

David  came  up  to  him.  "Listen,  Tom.  Am  I  ever  going 
to  grow  up?" 

"I  hope  not,  Davie — altogether." 

David  sat  down  beside  him.  Tom  went  on:  "I  rushed 
home  after  a  business  date  for  dinner.  Hoping  to  find  you. 
I  wanted  to  see  you  to-night." 

"Why?" 

"For  no  literal  reason,  David.  .  .  ,  Does  one  have  to  have 
a  literal  reason  for  seeing  one's  friends?  Eh?  Does  one?" 

Suddenly,  David  was  uncomfortable.  He  had  felt  strong 
entering  the  room.  He  had  asked  Tom  if  ever  he  was  going 
to  grow  up  because  just  then,  perhaps  more  than  at  any  other 
time,  he  felt  mature.  Now  this  fine  mood  faded.  It  was 
very  strange.  He  could  not  adjust  to  Tom  the  discoveries 
of  life  he  made  without  him.  Three  evenings  before  he  had 
come  home  dancing  with  romance  and  Tom  had  cut  his 
clouds.  Now  here  he  was,  realistic  like  a  god  taking  his 
mortal  holiday:  and  Tom  spoke  of  having  missed  him  and 
of  the  love  of  friends.  What  was  wrong  here?  Why  could 
he  not  get  rid  of  the  ridiculous  idea  that  Tom  was  always 
spoiling  his  pleasures? 

"You  don't  care  for  me  very  much,"  there  he  was  saying, 
"You  don't  even  come  home  anxious  to  see  me." 

"I  did  to-night,  Tom." 

"Yes:  after  an  evening  with  our  fair  Constance.  I  am 
restful,  eh?" 

David  blushed.    How  unpleasant  Tom  could  be!     But  he 


232  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

was  sorry  he  had  blushed.  For  Tom  looked  sharp  at  him: 
his  face  seemed  to  be  coming  forward  as  he  looked.  Then, 
he  dropped  back  into  his  chair  and  took  up  his  book.  With 
his  eyes  on  it,  he  spoke  casually: 

" Since  you  are  so  friendly  with  Constance,  perhaps  you  can 
tell  me:  has  she  gotten  rid  of  Stegending?  Or  is  he  still 
agonizing?'7 

David  turned  pale.     "How  should  I  know?"  he  muttered. 

Tom  smiled  at  once,  knowing  he  had  hurt  him. 

"It  is  always  a  mere  matter  of  time  till  they  want  to 
marry  her.  Then,"  he  chuckled,  "it  is — as  the  doctors  say — 
a  mere  matter  of  hours." 

David  felt  the  need  of  striking,  as  if  it  had  been  striking 
back.  Although  he  had  no  accurate  sense  that  Tom  had 
attacked  him. 

"You  are  funny,  Tom.  You  say  I  never  come  back  anxious 
to  see  you:  and  you  seem  to  find  fault  that  I've  been  out 
amusing  myself  for  a  change.  As  if  you  weren't  out  ten 
times  more  than  I." 

"I  go  out  for  business.  If  I  had  my  way  I'd  stay  home 
every  blessed  night.  And  tell  the  hostesses  to  go  to  blazes." 

"Well,  I  like  to  go  out  for  pleasure." 

"By  all  means,  Davie.  But  don't  have  too  much.  You 
may  get  tired  of  it.  Then  what  will  you  do?"  He  laughed. 
"Perhaps  then  you'd  have  more  time  for  your  middle-aged 
friend." 

His  mood  was  changed.  The  will  to  hurt  was  gone.  It 
was  as  if  in  its  fulfillment  he  had  been  assuaged.  Tom  looked 
at  David  now  with  a  warm  candor.  And  David,  looking  at 
Tom,  realized  that  this  was  a  great  joy — this  talking  with  his 
friend:  it  was  clear  and  deep  and  right:  and  what  had  come 
before  was  already  dim,  had  already  lost  its  taste.  Even  as 
he  looked  back  for  it,  that  seemed  less  real  than  this. 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  233 

Something  of  the  essence  of  these  thoughts  Tom  found  and 
was  glad. 

"Come,  old  man,"  he  said.  "Light  your  pipe:  let's  have 
a  chat." 

In  a  way  so  gradual  and  smooth  he  had  no  heed,  life  was 
going  well  with  David.  He  was  relaxed  before  all  its  elements 
that  met  him.  His  mind,  instead  of  sallying  out  to  measure 
and  contest  each  meeting  with  reality  and  to  reduce  it  in 
vassalage  of  his  own  subjective  world,  receded  now  within 
itself  and  what  it  found  disguised,  remolded  into  consonance 
with  the  world  meeting  him. 

His  easy  acquiescence  in  Constance  Bardale's  sense  of  their 
relation  brought  him  reward  which  his  new  mood  could  value. 
The  delusion  of  love  was  rent  away.  Remained  the  reality  of 
passion  to  be  accepted  or  denied.  He  was  in  no  mood  for 
denial.  Tacitly  he  let  slip  all  he  had  dreamed  of  woman,  all 
he  had  dreamed  of  love.  He  had  no  thought  of  a  next-coming 
step  with  Constance.  He  was  not  open  to  surprise  or  worry. 
He  was  calm,  contained.  He  was  the  very  lover  she  desired. 

And  proud  of  his  success.  Proud  of  his  conquest  of  one 
whom  a  naif  part  of  him  still  found  miraculous  and  remote. 
At  her  parties  now  he  fell  back  into  a  silence  and  reserve  of 
a  different  meaning.  He  knew  himself  the  secret  master. 
The  homage  of  her  guests  to  Constance  was  homage  to  him. 
Men  feeling  for  her  with  tense  nerves,  warm  eyes;  women 
seeking  her  secret  in  her  words  and  gestures,  envying  her 
power,  glad  to  share  in  its  largess  and  pick  up  the  aroused 
senses  of  the  men  that  she  sent  retreating  from  her — was 
incense  to  David.  He  could  afford  to  recline  away  from 
the  conversation:  he  could  dare  outstay  the  last  of  the  guests 
and  hold  her  one  moment  in  his  arms,  drink  in  one  draught 
the  wine  of  the  evening's  excitement  upon  her  lips  before  he 
left  her  also. 


234  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

He  did  not  see  her  too  often.  She  saw  to  that.  She  had 
a  tact  and  a  control  that  were  artistry.  And  a  consciousness 
of  this  that  made  her  jealous  of  her  standards,  steeled  her 
against  lowering  them,  filled  her  with  a  firm  discipline  of 
pleasure.  She  designed  the  mingling  of  their  lives  with  re 
straint  and  omission,  with  emphasis  and  grace  of  color. 
David  breathed  the  well-being  that  must  rise  from  any 
poise  of  forces.  He  had  the  comfort  of  the  part  in  an 
harmonious  whole. 

Now  this  well-being  wreathed  forth  into  the  other,  the 
deeper  phases  of  his  world. 

He  moved  toward  a  different  attitude  in  his  work  down 
town.  Here  the  violent  yet  canny  preachments  of  Tom 
helped  also. 

"The  weak  man,"  Tom  said,  "stays  in  business  and  yet 
despises  it.  So  that  the  one  End  of  business — success — es 
capes  him.  Of  course  I  am  not  now  talking  of  the  mediocre 
fool  who  respects  business — as  he  is  told  to — and  ekes  out 
his  pittance  blacking  the  other  fellow's  boots.  You  are  be 
yond  that,  Davie.  But  there  is  another  sort  of  fool — a  more 
intelligent  sort:  the  man  who  'sees  through'  business,  despises 
it  and  therefore  muffs  it.  He  is  unreasonable  also.  If  he 
can't  stand  business,  let  him  clear  out!  If  he  decides  to  stay 
in  he  is  a  fool  not  to  win.  One  must  of  course  despise  busi 
ness.  One  must  know  that  it  is  the  scramble  of  rather  lowly- 
evolved  and  very  greedy  persons.  One  should  be  conscious 
of  the  gullibility  and  venality  of  bankers,  of  the  wastefulness 
of  manufacturers,  of  the  opaqueness  of  middlemen.  It  should 
be  clear  to  you  that  the  elements  that  lift  up  the  Rockefellers 
and  the  Morgans  and  the  Hills  are  chiefly  the  singleminded- 
ness  of  the  stupid,  the  unimaginative  and  the  dishonest.  But 
what  sort  of  a  fool  is  it,  David,'  who  being  aware  of  these 
inferior  forces  permits  himself  to  be  worsted  by  them?  That 
seems  to  me  an  altogether  illogical  conclusion.  It  seems  to 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  235 

me  that  just  this  knowledge  should  make  the  knower  come 
out  on  top.  In  other  words,  the  man  who  has  brains  enough 
to  despise  business  should  be  the  successful  business  man: 
not  himself  but  the  mediocrities  should  become  the  victims 
of  his  disgust.  Therefore,  David,  through  the  very  clarity 
of  your  vision  into  the  nature  of  affairs,  you  must  master 
them.  God,  man!  would  you  be  anywhere  save  on  top  of 
such  a  muck-heap?" 

Tom  had  not  failed  to  help  make  David's  vision  clear.  As 
he  said: 

"Law  is  pandar  to  all  of  business's  ugly  lusts.  I  ought  to 
know  the  system's  filthiness  if  any  one." 

David  took  these  tirades  with  a  grain  of  salt.  He  was 
convinced  of  the  Quixotic  extravagance  in  Tom's  idealism. 
Yet,  the  essence  of  his  teaching  must  be  right.  David  be 
lieved  he  knew  this,  now.  Business  was  indeed  a  scramble  in 
life's  gutters  for  food :  the  unfortunate  way  men  had  of  getting 
their  bread.  But  what  was  one  to  do?  There  was  the  bread 
in  the  muddy  gutter.  Plenty  of  it,  plenty  to  go  round.  Tom 
had  assured  him  that  the  economists  who  said  "No"  were 
slaves  of  the  scramblers.  Let  him  just  read  Kropotkin.  Pro 
duction  was  in  a  state  of  wasteful  anarchy.  But  men  had 
somehow  preferred  to  ship  their  fair  food  from  the  fields 
where  it  grew,  and  drop  it  in  the  filth  of  a  million  scurrying 
feet,  in  the  gutters  that  were  rutted  and  befouled  by  years 
of  greedy  commotion.  Here  they  preferred  to  fight  for  it  like 
pigs  nosing  to  a  trough:  to  expend  their  energies  and  debase 
their  spirits  for  its  hoarding  and  for  the  depriving  of  others. 
It  must  all  have  been  in  some  way  deeply  needful,  else  why 
should  this  idiotic  condition  have  arisen,  why  should  the 
simpler  way  not  have  been  found,  by  which  all  men  might 
have  what  they  needed  to  eat — expend  the  rest  of  their  forces 
in  higher  works?  This  was  the  rule.  David  must  scramble 
along. 


236  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

"The  one  danger,"  said  Tom,  "is  not  to  understand.  The 
one  degradation  is  to  exalt  this  pother,  to  make  a  noble  thing 
out  of  the  job  of  earning  one's  living.  The  cult  of  Business. 
You  see  it  everywhere.  Men  must  worship:  it  is  easier  to 
worship  low  than  high." 

All  this  was  sound  enough,  thought  David. 

On  his  way  down  Wall  Street,  to  and  from  his  office,  he* 
saw  a  spectacle  strangely  near  the  gutter  metaphor  of  Tom. 
David  remembered  how  this  sight  had  at  first  aroused  him: 
how  quickly  it  had  become  an  unnoticed  feature  of  that 
downtown  world  so  that,  if  he  had  missed  it,  in  rain  or  in 
snow,  he  should  have  known  that  a  great  dislocation  had 
come  upon  the  Temple. 

It  was  the  sight  of  the  curb-brokers.  There  they  stood 
crowding  the  broad  street  with  their  bodies,  clamoring  the 
air  with  their  cries  and  their  scurried  gestures.  David  went 
close  to  watch  them :  for  they  were  a  thick  knot  on  the  street, 
they  were  like  a  swarm  of  bugs  overrunning  a  lump  of  refuse 
in  a  road.  To  distinguish  more  than  the  blotch  of  their 
thronging  and  the  low  drone  of  their  noise  from  which  sharp 
voices  pierced,  one  had  to  bring  near  one's  face.  David  saw, 
now,  that  they  were  mostly  young  men,  rather  shabbily 
dressed  since  they  must  be  prepared  for  every  weather  and 
for  any  scrimmage,  with  sharp  faces — very  red  or  very  pale — 
in  constant  motion.  Their  eyes  darted,  their  mouths  worked, 
they  dashed  notes  in  little  books,  thrust  forth  hands  above 
the  gesticulating  mass  and  spun  away  to  other  knots  of 
the  buffet  with  hats  over  ears  and  upturned  collars.  They 
looked  up  at  the  high  windows.  There,  perched  half  out 
wards  in  rows  were  other  men,  behind  ranks  of  telephones 
that  they  perpetually  shrilled  in,  and  thrust  from  them.  They 
leaned  out,  with  contorted  fingers  signaled  to  their  colleagues 
below.  Hands  jutted  from  the  crowd,  fingers  twirled  an 
swering  signals.  They  used  the  language  of  the  deaf  and 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  237 

dumb.  If  David  had  not  heard  the  incessant  burr  of  their 
voices  above  the  shuffle  of  their  feet,  he  might  have  taken 
them  for  deaf-mutes.  A  same  something  strained  and  un- 
quickened  about  the  muscles  of  their  throats  and  jaws  which 
he  had  noticed  in  deaf-mutes.  He  understood  that  only  by 
signs  and  battle-calls  could  they  in  the  street  and  the  men 
perched  in  the  windows  carry  on  their  communications.  He 
admired  their  adroitness.  The  disturbance  rose  and  fell:  had 
its  hours  of  thick  frenzy  and  its  streaks  of  deliquescence. 
But  it  was  unending. 

David  had  learned  that  the  curb-brokers  dealt  in  securities 
not  listed  in  the  new  Exchange  that  stood  like  a  Temple  be 
yond  the  turmoil  of  the  street.  No  other  difference.  So  he 
knew  these  solemn  walls  were  hypocrites.  Within  them,  older 
men,  better  clad,  better-paunched,  buffeted  and  bid  and 
bounced :  at  times — he  was  told — floored  each  other,  blackened 
eyes,  broke  noses.  All  one:  the  naked  and  the  canopied  gut 
ter:  the  scrimmage  under  sky  and  the  scrimmage  under  marble. 
Buildings  tiered  and  teemed,  and  in  each  cranny  a  fight.  With 
polite  tricks,  men  plotted  and  plundered,  swung  the  whole 
of  their  vast  might  of  concentrated  work  into  the  anarchy  of 
Distribution.  To  the  end  of  deflecting  from  its  even  channels 
the  sap  of  Toil  to  their  own  bellies.  Scrambling  masters  and 
myriad  slaves  who  had  not  even  the  grace  of  scrambling  for 
themselves. 

David  saw  how  he  was  in  a  Jungle.  A  high  and  splendid 
Jungle  whose  call  to  the  hunt  the  minds  of  men  had  made 
complex  and  beautiful,  but  had  by  no  jot  lessened.  On  the 
high  seas  and  in  far  countries  they  wrangled  with  fire  and 
steel:  in  the  curbs  of  the  City  they  wrangled  with  their 
bodies:  elsewhere  they  wrangled  with  sinuous  thrusts  of 
their  brains,  deceit  of  their  mouths.  But  everywhere  they 
were  at  a  single,  sterile  Game.  David  had  been  willing  to 
accept  Tom's  symbol  for  it  all:  that  black  swarm  of  men, 


238  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

blotching  the  canyoned  street — the  brokers  at  the  Curb.  He 
knew  it  for  what  it  was. 

Now,  David  was  beginning  to  see  by  a  new  light,  to  find 
different  colors.  Immersed  in  the  struggle  himself,  he  found 
that  it  had  its  appeal  like  any  contest:  its  occasions  for  fun 
and  romance,  its  release  of  the  generous  and  the  brave  from 
the  welter  of  uglier  instincts.  The  strange  thing  about  Tom 
was  that  he  kept  the  attitude  of  the  outsider.  Perhaps  there 
in  lay  his  strength,  the  element  of  caution  and  command 
above  the  Battle.  But  if  David  knew  from  his  boyhood  what 
a  terrible  thing  it  was  to  watch  two  men  beat  each  other 
in  the  street,  he  knew  as  well  what  a  thrilling  thing  it  was  if 
he  were  one  of  the  beaters — beyond  pain  and  reason  alto 
gether,  given  up  to  the  ecstasy  of  beating.  So  now,  however 
arbitrary  the  rules,  wasteful  the  blows  and  trivial  the  ends, 
there  was  a  pleasure  in  this  clinch  of  wits,  a  catching  curve 
to  this  conflict.  The  glamor  might  come,  as  Tom  insisted, 
from  the  prodigious  expense  of  will  and  energy  in  those  who 
struggled  together.  But  glamor  it  was.  .  .  .  Was  all  glory 
on  earth  the  glory  merely  of  him  who  could  see  glory? 

David  moved  to  his  new  poise  in  the  world  on  wings  within 
him  like  the  wings  of  a  seed.  He  was  part  of  that  Spring, 
he  would  bud  with  it:  he  too  sought  sustenance  for  his  green 
shoots,  his  frail  flowers.  His  affair  with  Constance  shed 
mellowness  like  a  sun:  his  relation  with  Tom  inspired  at  once 
a  taste  for  mastery  and  the  need  of  seeking  it  elsewhere 
since  to  Tom  he  was  subject.  In  the  particular  detail  of 
finding  his  life  downtown  an  exciting  game,  there  was  his  new 
Chief,  the  credit  man,  Mr.  Christopher  Barlow. 

A  little  gray-haired  man  with  blue  eyes  sparkling:  a  silent 
man  who  seemed  unconcerned  with  giving  him  the  most  per 
functory  explanations  of  the  work  he  expected  him  to  do. 

"How  the  devil  can  I  give  satisfaction  if  Mr.  Barlow  de 
clines  to  show  me  how?"  said  David  to  himself:  and  looked 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  239" 

at  Mr.  Barlow:  and  found  he  was  not  near  so  ill-at-ease  as 
the  occasion  called  for. 

Mr.  Barlow  did  not  ignore  him.  His  eyes  dwelt  on  David, 
reticent,  timidly,  as  if  he  feared  to  intrude  even  with  his 
eyes.  But  it  was  no  professional  attention.  The  embargo 
was  strict  on  business.  David  had  his  desk.  What  should 
he  do  with  it?  He  pondered — pondered  long  since  there  was 
nothing  swift  in  David  at  all.  He  resolved  to  take  matters 
into  his  own  hands. 

"I  am  here,"  he  decided,  "I  have  to  do  something  here. 
I'll  look  about.  .  .  .» 

He  began  to  eye,  finally  to  study  files,  to  go  through  pon 
derous  credit  lists,  to  decipher,  by  the  process  of  comparison, 
the  marks  he  found  against  the  names  of  customers.  He 
read  the  classified  papers  on  Mr.  Barlow's  desk:  those  on  the 
wicker  trays,  before  the  stenographer  filed  them.  Mr.  Barlow 
saw  him  prowling.  David  was  quite  sure  the  sharp,  kind 
face  lighted  up  and  the  eyes  twinkled.  Mr.  Barlow  blew  a 
sluggish  ring  of  smoke  from  his  cigar  into  the  air,  thrust 
through  it  with  his  pencil  and  exclaimed:  "I  got  you!"  to  the 
ring.  Cryptically  enough.  Yet  it  was  such  behavior  that 
limited  David's  discomfort.  Mr.  Barlow  seemed  quite  mani 
festly  pleased.  He  would  go  on  prowling. 

This  continued  for  several  weeks. 

His  uncle  burst  into  their  office  with  rustle  of  spread  papers 
flying  about  him  like  sails.  He  made  for  Mr.  Barlow's  desk 
without  noticing  David. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Barlow:  I  wonder  can  you  help  me  in  this  matter 
of  Dehn  and  Penny.  You  know,  they  have  sued  for  that 
fall  shipment.  Yes,  of  course:  the  shipper  is  responsible. 
But  it's  a  complex  case.  Whereabouts  do  we  stand  as  to 
the  next  ten  years,  should  we  decide  to  compromise?" 

Mr.  Barlow  made  a  coordinated  reach  for  papers  that  were 
carefully  set  away  in  different  drawers;  at  the  same  time  he 


240  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

rang  for  his  secretary.  As  he  took  a  pad  and  began  annotat 
ing:  "File  C-9,  Dehn  and  Penny,  Miss  Loman,"  he  said  and 
was  at  work.  Mr.  Deane  was  doubtless  aware  of  the  dispatch 
of  his  Mr.  Barlow.  He  did  not  seat  himself.  He  stood  there, 
patiently  waiting.  He  hummed  a  tune  and  beat  time  to  it 
with  the  tip  of  pencil  on  Mr.  Barlow's  desk.  With  a  cloudy 
gaze  he  took  in  the  cluttered  room  and  David  in  the  corner: 
then  suddenly  was  lost  in  contemplation  of  the  ceiling. 

"Here  you  are,  Mr.  Deane."  His  uncle  was  startled  as  if 
from  a  revery.  It  was  an  effort  to  take  his  gaze  from  the 
fly-specked  ceiling  down  to  the  pad  of  paper  with  its  squad 
of  figures. 

"Hm — yes — Hm,"  said  Mr.  Deane  as  he  studied  the  array. 

Mr.  Barlow  gave  him  sufficient  time  to  study  the  report. 
Then,  "There  are  two  human  elements  besides,"  he  said, 
"Faraday  is  an  erratic  salesman.  He  may  possibly  lose  us 
the  account."  Mr.  Deane  nodded  thoughtfully.  "And  on  the 
credit  page,"  continued  Mr.  Barlow,  "their  new  treasurer, 
Clumberg,  is  a  man  of  intelligent  imagination.  His  invest 
ment  in  Dehn  and  Penny  means  confidence,  and  his  presence 
there  means  improvement.  He  is  the  sort  of  man  who  may 
be  guided  toward  us  by  this  very  matter." 

Mr.  Barlow  was  silent.  Mr.  Deane  stood  a  moment  rigid 
in  speculation.  Then  he  relaxed.  He  had  found  his  decision. 

"Very  good.  Very  good.  Thank  you,  Mr.  Barlow.  It  is 
a  good  risk."  He  turned  to  go. 

He  paused  at  the  door.  His  face  was  relieved  of  his 
stern  cloud.  In  the  wreathing  of  his  mood,  his  e}^es  wreathed 
also  and  took  in  David:  this  time,  not  as  a  part  of  the  office's 
equipment,  but  as  a  young  man  in  whom  he  had  an  interest. 

"By  the  way,  Mr.  Barlow,"  he  had  David  in  his  eye,  "how 
goes  our  young  rascal?  Is  he  behaving  himself?" 

"He  is  making  progress." 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  241 

Mr.  Deane  chuckled  a  bit  with  his  big  stomach  and  dis 
appeared. 

David  was  bewildered.  He  had  not  been  sure  that  Mr. 
Barlow  had  noticed  him  at  all,  much  less,  observed  if  he  was 
making  progress.  He  thought  the  best  way  to  hide  his  rather 
uncomfortable  pleasure  was  by  burying  it  in  a  litter  of  ac 
counts  where  personal  data  concerning  tobacco  dealers — their 
wives  and  their  habits — mingled  fantastically  with  cold  fig 
ures.  But  of  one  thing  David  was  already  sure.  He  was 
groping  confidently  in  a  labyrinth  of  business  detail  to  whose 
end  he  had  been  offered  no  key  and  no  direction:  he  was 
assistant  to  a  man  that  ordered  him  and  asked  him  nothing 
whatsoever.  Yet  he  liked  that  man  immensely.  And  he 
observed  to  his  surprise  that  he  was  working  harder  than  he 
had  ever  worked.  He  was  soon  to  know  that  also  he  was 
learning  faster.  There  was  in  the  queer  antics  of  Mr.  Barlow 
a  design.  In  a  tacit  way,  he  had  been  set  to  a  test.  In  a 
hidden  way  he  was  being  watched!  Business  was  a  brighter 
thing.  He  came  each  morning  to  his  work  with  his  nerves 
tingling.  He  was  eager  to  plunge  in  and  pull  out  more  prizes 
of  knowledge.  Since  the  standard  of  Mr.  Barlow  was  so 
dim,  David  put  it  high  and  worked  the  harder  to  attain  it: 
put  it  at  the  height  of  himself. 

Then,  the  business  of  his  office  dawned  on  him  as  a  mystery 
no  longer.  He  seemed  to  know  where  he  was  and  whither 
he  was  going.  The  mists  were  lifting,  there  was  a  pleasant 
terrain  under  his  feet.  Mr.  Barlow  said  no  word.  But 
David  felt  like  swinging  his  arms. 

Evidently  even  this  secret  impulse  was  no  secret  to  Mr. 
Barlow. 

"Mr.  Markand." 

David  startled.  As  he  got  up  from  his  little  desk,  he  felt 
as  if  he  were  at  the  beginning  of  a  race  he  had  long  pre 
pared  for. 


242  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

Mr.  Barlow  handed  him  a  batch  of  papers;  "Make  a  report 
on  this/' — and  resumed  his  silence. 

David  went  back  to  his  corner,  his  hands  a-tremble  as  if 
he  held  at  once  a  testimonial  of  merit  and  a  maze  of  magic 
words  he  must  by  some  fantastic  grace  decipher.  Would  he 
prove  equal  to  the  test?  He  looked  at  what  was  in  his  hands. 
With  difficulty,  he  focussed  his  eyes  and  read.  He  seemed 
to  know!  Very  slowly,  step  by  step,  he  followed.  All  the 
papers  he  had  surveyed,  all  the  correspondence  left — by  acci 
dent,  he  wondered? — on  Mr.  Barlow's  desk  swung  now  into 
line  like  an  army  of  reserves  to  help  him.  He  met  his  battle, 
he  was  half  dazed  by  his  ability  to  advance  against  these  in 
tricate  problems.  He  gained  confidence  as  he  moved.  After 
an  hour's  work: 

"Mr.  Barlow,"  he  said,  as  if  he  had  said  the  same  thing 
a  score  of  times  before,  "I  shall  have  to  make  a  couple  of 
visits  for  this  report.  I  must  go  to  the  stores — and " 

He  dangled. 

"Well,  then— why  don't  you  start?" 

In  the  relief  he  had  of  the  answer,  David  knew  the  depth 
of  hesitance  that  there  had  been  in  his  announcement. 

He  went  and  succeeded.  He  was  a  little  amused  to  find 
in  himself  that  he  liked  every  one  he  met  in  his  visits,  and 
that  despite  this  fact  his  report  was  unfavorable.  Mr.  Bar 
low  made  no  comment  at  all. 

"It  must  have  been  an  easy  one,"  said  David  to  himself. 

But  he  realized  that  he  had  had  a  bully  time:  he  was  win 
ning  his  spurs. 

Occasionally  now,  Mr.  Barlow  broke  his  silence:  in  the  un 
obtrusive  way  with  which  he  kept  it.  David  was  bewildered 
at  his  chief's  understanding  of  him.  He  had  an  uncanny  way 
of  choosing  subjects  for  chance  observation  that  came  close 
home.  ^  > 

"Could  you  find  anything  more  human,"  he  once  asked, 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  243 

"than  this  job  of  ours?  Yet  it  deals  with  the  cold  matter 
of  financial  credits.  The  point  is,  Mr.  Markand,  there  is  no 
such  animal  as  the  'cold  matter  of  financial  credits/  There's 
human  warmth,  human  smartness,  human  weakness  every 
where.  You  can  just  bet  there's  never  another  thing.  You 
know  it  in  a  play  of  Shakespeare,  don't  you?  Get  to  know 
it  in  this  play  and  you'll  have  fun." 

Mr.  Barlow  indeed  seemed  to  have  fun. 

"Well,"  he  greeted  David,  "ready  this  morning  to  sail  the 
Spanish  Main?  Let's  see, — hm,"  he  was  slicing  his  mail  from 
one  hand  to  another  as  one  does  with  a  pack  of  cards,  "let's 
see  what's  on  deck  to-day." 

It  was  hard  to  guess  how  old  was  Mr.  Barlow.  His  short- 
cropped  hair  was  uniformly  graying:  it  had  been  black,  it 
was  now  neither  black  nor  gray.  He  was  clean-shaven. 
David  noticed  two  wide,  deep  folds  pleating  the  cheeks  of 
his  generous  long  face.  But  the  air  of  Mr.  Barlow  was  young. 
David  did  observe  a  certain  resoluteness  in  his  good  humor — 
a  consistency  perhaps  too  nurtured.  At  times,  when  his  eyes 
wandered  from  his  work  and  he  sat  there  rigid,  slowly  beating 
his  hand  from  the  supported  wrist  upon  the  table  as  if  to 
some  inner  rhythm,  David  saw  a  gathering  sadness  in  his 
eyes.  Before  it  could  spread  to  the  rest  of  his  face  Mr. 
Barlow  routed  it.  He  got  up,  he  walked  up  and  down,  his 
little  body  had  the  lithe  quickness  of  morning.  He  shrugged 
his  sharp  shoulders  quite  as  he  did  when  he  smiled.  The 
sadness  was  gone.  .  .  . 

It  could  not  be  long  before  this  new  bloom  of  contentment 
reached  where  Tom  and  David  stood  looking  at  each  other. 

It  was  come  and  working  over  him  as  does  all  bloom: 
subtly,  hidden  away  in  the  slow  hours,  swift  alone  in  the 
achievement  and  perhaps  in  the  passing — a  thrust  here  of 


244  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

green,  a  burst  there  of  bud,  the  alternate  warm  cradling  of 
sun  and  shadow.  .  .  . 

He  was  alone  in  his  room.  By  breaking  early  from  his 
work  he  overtook  the  long  rays  of  the  sun  of  afternoon  point 
ing  across  his  window  into  the  East  where  the  night  rose. 
He  squatted  on  the  floor  with  crossed  legs,  arms  folded.  He 
stayed  unmoved,  and  let  his  thoughts  swirl  about  his  glad 
ness  like  birds  circling  a  light-house. 

Swift  shadows  were  his  thoughts  against  the  tower  of  his 
vision.  David  saw  he  was  alive,  and  felt  it  good.  Surely 
life  was  a  miracle  none  could  explain.  Surely  to  approach  the 
miracle  was  to  confess  it — bask  in  the  glow  of  knowing  life 
unknowable.  He  had  a  vision  of  the  world  of  men  and  chil 
dren  and  mothers — endless  millions  massing  down  the  ages. 
All  of  them  had  eyes  upturned,  had  eyes  and  lips  full  of 
prayer.  All  of  them  were  on  their  knees.  All  the  men  and 
mothers  and  children  of  all  ages  were  praying  before  the 
miracle  of  life!  He  thought  of  Science — he  thought  of  Dar 
win,  of  the  makers  of  systems  and  machines,  of  the  weavers 
of  dogmas  and  rules.  He  knew  that  all  these  were  parts  of 
the  miracle  and  somehow  good.  But  what  did  they  know  and 
what  did  their  saying  amount  to?  Could  one  of  them  explain 
what  and  why  Life  'was?  the  ecstasy  of  this  teeming,  whirling 
earth  flung  like  a  fleck  of  dust  upon  the  whirlwind  of  count 
less  worlds  that,  in  their  turn,  lifted  a  shred  of  flimsy  scarf 
on  the  tempest  of  unending  Space?  They  could  not  explain. 
Their  absorption  in  some  speck  of  knowledge  ended  alone  in 
this:  that  they  forgot  they  could  not  explain  ...  so  lost  the 
one  approach  they  might  have  had  to  the  ecstasy  of  life. 
Their  little  speck  of  knowledge  blotted  their  vision! 

David  sat  thrilling  with  the  thought  of  this  adventure — 
this  greatest  of  surprises: — he  was  alive!  He  seemed  large 
in  his  vision,  strong.  He  realized  that  Tom  did  not  have 
this  vision.  He  felt  himself  larger  and  stronger  than  Tom. 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  245 

He  felt  tender  toward  him  for  this.  He  forgave  him  every 
thing,  since  everything  was  trivial  to  this:  that  he  was  stronger 
than  Tom  and  loved  him,  and  must  therefore  care  for  him. 
Out  of  the  dim  vision  of  all  life,  there  crystalized  for  David 
a  vision  clear  and  single  of  his  relationship  with  Tom.  B*it 
in  its  superb  folly,  never  could  it  have  been  engendered  save 
for  the  truth  of  David's  wanderings  among  the  stars.  .  .  . 

So  he  was  really  stronger  than  his  friend?  And  he  had 
been  unjust  with  misunderstanding?  There  were  discrepan 
cies  of  words  and  action,  dubious  things  in  Tom?  Then 
let  him  out  of  his  overflowing  strength  observe  them. 

Tom  said  to  him:  "You  are  my  one  real  friend.  You  must 
believe  that." 

And:  " Whatever  I  may  say  or  do  with  others  to  deflect  me, 
to  you  I  am  the  truth." 

Tom  said  these  things  often,  because  often  puzzlement  was 
in  David  and  doubt  near.  Tom  said  to  him:  "Your  standard 
of  me,  David,  is  a  great  injustice.  Its  height  is  unfair.  I 
am  not  strong,  David,  I  am  weak.  I  admit  all  the  hateful 
thiEgs  you  see  in  me  when  we  go  out  together.  A  sort  of 
drunkenness  quivers  through  me.  I  have  to  say  clever  things, 
I  have  to  please,  I  have  to  control.  Damn  it,  man!  you  don't 
despise  it  half  so  well  as  I.  But,  Davie,  I  am  not  like  that, 
am  I,  when  we  are  alone?  Why  won't  you  judge  me  by  my 
real  self?  Tell  me,  do  you  judge  anything  else  when  it  is 
hidden  and  sick?" 

Tom  said  to  him:  "You  didn't  like  the  way  I  was  to-day 
with  Durthal?  Oh,  my  dear  fellow,  it  was  plain  enough.  It 
was  written  all  over  you.  My  only  wonder  was  what  poor 
old  Lars  was  thinking.  What  a  dear,  black  grouch  you  can 
be,  Davie.  .  .  .  Well,  why  should  I  not  be  cordial  to  Lars? 
Why  should  I  not  pay  as  much  attention  to  him  as  I  wish? 
And  more  than  I  do  to  my  best  friend — yes,  my  best  friend 
whom  I  ignored?  I  know  that,  Davie.  In  company  I  do 


246  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

not  need  to  pay  attention  to  you.  You  are  not  part  of  com 
pany.  If  I  ignored  you — logical,  eh?  I  have  you  alone. 
And  if,  in  yourself,  you  do  not  know  the  difference  in  the 
way  I  feei  toward  yourself  and  toward  silly,  empty-headed 
Durthal,  do  not  expect  me  to  make  it  clear  with  a  room 
full  of  fellows.  Because  I  won't!" 

"Do  you  think  Durthal  empty-headed?" 
!     "You  know  he  has  just  enough  stupidity  to  make  an  intel 
ligent  professor  of  Swedish  drill." 
•1     "And  Darby  Lunn?" 

"Lunn  has  talent,  David.  Whether  he  will  ever  amount  to 
a  thing  as  a  painter  is  another  thing.  I  doubt  it.  He  is  a 
bit  mad,  you  know.  Nurtures  all  the  nonsense  of  his  will 
with  a  great  pride  instead  of  trampling  it  under,  as  a  true 
artist  should.  What  I  am  trying  to  help  him  toward  is 
knowledge  of  the  folly  of  extravagance  and  wildness  in  so 
sober  a  calling  as  Art." 

"But  you  Z?Q  wild  with  him,  Tomi  You  talk  nonsense  and 
you  act  nonsense  as  I  have  never  seen  you  do  with  any  one 
else!" 

"If  I  didn't  meet  him  on  his  own  ground,  what  chance 
would  I  have  of  drawing  him  off  it?  ...  Really,  Davie,  you 
are  a  joke." 

"Are  you  very  fond  of  him  also?" 

"Not  also — and  not  either.  I  am  interested  in  Darby's 
hopeless  talent:  and  in  Durthal's  efficient  helplessness." 

"They  both  believe,  I  am  sure,  that  you're  devoted  to 
them." 

"Well :  they  are  devoted  to  me.  Why  should  I  not  let  them 
think  what  gives  them  pleasure?  Do  I  harm  them — does 
what  I  let  them  think  harm  you?"  .  .  .  David  often  won 
dered  if  each  believed  himself  Tom's  "only  friend." 

But  now  he  knew  these  doubts  unworthy.  He  had  a 
strength  with  which  to  exorcize  them.  He  knew  that  he  was 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  247 

the  real  friend.  He  knew  that  Tom  was  not  altogether  con 
scious  of  his  motives  with  such  "friends"  as  Lunn  and  Dur- 
thal.  The  truth  was,  he  loved  power:  loved  the  nearness  of 
those  over  whose  minds  he  was  ascendant.  Unconsciously,  he 
fed  to  each  a  subjecting  mental  and  emotional  food.  This 
was  but  one  of  the  details  of  Tom's  curious  character;  David 
now  understood. 

The  truth  was,  indeed,  that  Tom  could  be  insincere:  deeply 
so,  never.  His  insincerity  was  superficial.  It  could  come 
into  play  the  world  over:  it  went  like  a  mist  before  the  sun 
of  their  friendship.  David  must  learn  a  difficult  thing:  to 
believe  his  friend  when  he  spoke  truth,  to  be  unshaken  when 
he  scattered  counterfeits.  Was  not  the  reason  plain  enough? 
Tom  was  sensitive  beyond  measure.  As  no  one  else  he  felt  the 
bcorn  of  life,  the  scorn  of  human  imperfection.  Among  the  false 
works  of  man  he  had  to  move  about,  to  hunt  and  earn  his  liv 
ing.  Tom's  passionate  disgust  for  the  Law!  How  his  too  fine 
sensibilities  were  agonized  by  the  Law's  lying  ugliness:  so 
that  his  native  pleasure  in  its  practice  went  and  he  had  no 
eyes  for  the  Law's  better  side.  Or,  if  he  did  have  pleasure 
in  the  game — and  he  must  while  he  played  it — how  quick 
it  died  away  before  the  soreness  of  his  nerves!  Tom  could 
not  admit  of  the  need  of  life's  imperfections:  not  face  the  im 
perfections  in  himself.  Yes :  that  "was  it.  When  these  imper 
fections  called  for  their  hour  of  air,  they  simply  cast  the  real 
Tom  out  where  he  would  not  interfere.  That  was  why  the 
love  of  power  and  applause,  when  it  did  come  to  Tom,  came 
like  intoxication,  overwhelmed  him  so  that  David  looked  in 
vain  for  his  scornful  and  uncompromising  friend.  Now  David 
would  look  in  vain  no  longer.  In  the  very  perfection  of  Tom's 
worldliness,  he  saw  the  measure  of  his  contempt.  As  if  Tom 
said:  Here,  my  fools,  you  want  me  to  dazzle  you  and  play 
you?  You  shall  have  your  fill.  You  have  no  interest  in  my 
real  thoughts,  my  real  self?  You  shall  have  no  peep  at 


THE  DARK  MOTHER 

them.     The  more,  now,  Tow  hid  himself,  the  more  David 
found  him. 

:  All  this  David  discovered  for  himself.  All  this,  in  many 
conversations,  hinted  or  thrust  sharply  in,  Tom  had  been 
preparing  him  to  think.  Tom — and  an  April  sun  upon  the 
seed  of  himself.  .  .  . 

David  glowed.  .  .  .  What  marvel  what  difference  there 
could  be  in  the  same  things!  His  cable-car  flung  grating 
shrieking  on  the  corner:  an  adventurous  jest  which  once  was 
an  ugly  jolt  against  the  tempo  of  his  way. 

The  City! — the  miraculous  City!  No  trees,  no  fresh  soef 
greening:  an  ailanthus  bursting  here  and  there  through  cracks 
' — gray  cold — in  the  pavements.  But  men  and  women  in  the 
streets!  Now  he  saw  what  teeming  creatures  these  were, 
the  streets  and  their  women. 

Streets  and  women  big  with  laughter  and  children.  Teem 
ing  streets,  teeming  women. 

It  was  hard  to  recall  how  dead  he  had  been  that  winter. 
It  was  hard  to  recall  the  streets.  Gray  mournful  fissures  they 
were,  cracks  by  the  cold  upon  the  flint  of  a  barren  star: 
ruts  in  the  crust  of  a  dead  world.  Upon  them  the  chill  refuse 
of  chaos  was  cast  down.  Soiled  snow,  soiled  creatures.  They 
crawled  from  their  crannies  and  over-ran  them.  They  bore 
in  their  eyes  the  Sign  of  exile  in  chaos. 

Now  different  streets — budding  teeming  streets:  different 
himself,  glowing  through  packed  streets. 

Women  sat  in  shawls  on  the  housesteps:  doors  opened  into 
reeking,  into  pregnant  darkness:  children  in  rags  among  filth 
of  gutters:  horses  rattling  their  carts  through  laughter  of  chil 
dren.  Mothers  had  gray  long  breasts — they  held  them  to 
sweet  red  lips.  Mothers  had  shrill  words — they  spoke  love. 
High  noon  came  on  the  precocious  sun  of  Spring  and  clarified 
the  crevices  of  filth  between  the  Belgian  blocks.  Odors  rose 
to  the  sun  not  sweet  like  the  smells  of  earlier  Springs.  And 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  249 

yet  no  Spring  was  fertile  like  this  Spring.  No  stir  of  field 
with  young  grass,  with  young  flowers,  with  margin  of  maples 
ruddy  in  hard  buds,  keen  in  the  glint  of  birds.  .  .  .  David 
lived.  David  for  a  moment  saw  with  his  eyes  how  his  eye 
lids  were  shut  down  against  them.  David  saw.  .  .  . 

Blackness  .  .  .  ultimate  texture  of  all  colors  .  .  .  light.  A 
world  of  infinite  color,  infinite  flesh:  himself  within  the  world, 
himself  carried  within  it  through  it.  Himself  of  the  breakless 
tissue  of  the  world.  Flesh  of  sweet  smells,  sweet  odors,  sweet 
fluids.  Flesh  altogether  and  altogether  about  him.  He  alto 
gether  touching  all  Flesh — and  All.  David  knew  through  his 
shut  eyes,  walking  the  world,  how  he  was  carried  within  a  world 
of  ceaseless  substance:  how  he  was  substance  within  it:  how 
his  moving  and  knowing  through  Flesh  was  Spirit.  .  .  .  He 
walked — he  worked — he  ate.  He  had  a  woman's  body,  he 
earned  the  bread  of  a  man,  he  held  the  love  of  a  friend. 
Flesh,  all.  And  his  moving  through  Flesh,  his  moving  through 
infinite  immersion  through  the  Night,  through  the  World  of 
Flesh — Spirit  and  Dawn.  .  .  .  His  eyes  were  shut.  But  his 
mouth  was  open!  David  saw  with  his  mouth.  And  though 
he  knew  not  he  had  seen,  there  was  within  him,  there  would 
be  now  forevermore  within  him,  life  of  a  vision. 

The  world  was  a  Dark  Mother.  The  Night  of  the  miracle 
of  worlds  was  fleshed  and  was  a  Mother.  She  moved  in 
infinite  directions  an  infinite  path.  She  was  moveless.  And 
he  within  her,  moving  with  the  world  toward  the  moveless- 
ness  of  birth. 

David  was  unborn.  But  his  mouth  sucked  vision.  Sucking 
the  Night  sucked  vision.  He  slept  again.  Slept  long.  .  .  . 
Slept  years.  .  .  .  But  he  lived. 

David  and  Tom  came  back  from  dinner:  they  sat  together 
for  a  last  smoke  in  their  room:  the  world  they  willed  came  to 


250  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

be.  David  lit  his  pipe:  it  was  the  one  smoke  that  gave  him 
comfort.  Tom  sat  gloomy,  nervous,  flicking  his  cigarette 
until  he  had  destroyed  it,  lighting  another.  He  tore  open  his 
collar  as  if  he  needed  air.  He  whistled  the  last  half  of  a 
tune,  stopped,  met  David's  eyes  and  broke  from  the  strain 
of  their  mutual  discovery  by  jumping  up  and  gazing  into  the 
night.  David  did  not  budge.  The  room  was  filled  with  a 
strange  restraint.  Somewhere  a  struggle  was,  in  which  his 
mind  grappled  against  a  sinuous  opponent.  Why  did  he  have 
to  struggle  even  with  his  friend  for  the  friend  he  wanted? 

He  was  sick  of  struggle.  Was  not  all  struggle  a  lie?  Life 
was  work  enough.  There  was  no  repose  even  in  strength. 
There  was  no  repose  even  in  pleasure.  David  thought  of 
Constance.  Yes:  even  there  was  work.  Was  respite  in  weak 
ness?  David  doubted,  seeing  Tom,  thinking  of  the  pelt  of  his 
wit,  the  curves  of  his  mind  striving  for  attention.  In 
death?  .  .  . 

Tom  was  back  of  his  chair,  standing  above  him.  He  put 
his  hands  about  David's  neck,  drew  them  close. 

"What  are  you  thinking?" 

David  was  silent.     Tom's  hands  drew  closer. 

"I  could  choke  you,"  he  said.  " if  it  weren't  that  the 

cigarette  smoke  gets  in  my  eyes." 

They  laughed  together. 

David  was  sure  he  understood.  Tom  would  change.  Tom 
must  change!  When  Tom  changed  it  would  have  been  by 
David's  help.  Meantime,  he  must  abide  by  him,  not  tire, 
and  watch.  For  David  could  not  easily  endure  the  ways 
of  his  friend.  He  might  well  know  what  they  meant:  he 
need  not  therefore  deny  his  unhappiness  before  them.  .  .  . 

Yet  unhappiness  must  be  too  heavy  a  word.  Discomfort 
rather.  The  base  of  a  friendship  such  as  this  between  them 
must  be  happiness.  For  the  base  was  solid! 

David  knew  little  how  he  built  on  this.    Without  faith  in 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  251 

Tom's  absolute  fidelity  to  him  Tom's  infidelities  to  himself 
and  to  the  world  must  have  been  insufferable.  But  with  this 
faith,  all  the  rest  of  Tom — his  excuses,  his  associates,  his 
excesses — were  urgent  reasons  why  David  could  not  turn 
from  him,  must  come  closer.  Tom  said:  "You  are  my 
best  friend.  With  you  I  am  the  truth."  This  was  the  Law 
whereby  David  took  him.  All  else  Tom  said,  Tom  did,  was 
in  its  very  contrast  emphasis  of  the  truth.  All  else  could 
by  it  be  redeemed  and  solved.  Let  the  Law  however  not  be 
shaken! 

What  if  the  Law  was  an  invested  fort  he  had  at  times  to 
defend  against  misgivings?  against  Tom's  own  behavior? 
Was  he  not  full  of  an  unuttered  life  that  invested  contradic 
tions? 

David's  contentment  was  unshakeable.  It  took  to  itself  all 
hesitant  things,  made  them  over.  He  wanted  to  feel  that 
with  him  as  with  Tom,  the  truth  lay  clearest  in  their  lives 
together.  How  was  he  so  different?  In  business?  with  Con 
stance?  He  also  had  his  sophistries  and  abdications.  He 
took  pride  now  in  this  kinship.  It  gave  an  added  spell  to  the 
haven  of  their  friendship  where  they  withdrew  from  a  falsetto 
world  to  the  lone  reach  of  the  truth. 

Soon  David  forgot  the  bushings  altogether  that  were  needed 
to  create  this  haven.  Subsided  were  his  doubts  with  Tom, 
his  blanchings  when  they  drew  close,  the  lack  of  visible  back 
ground  to  their  friendship.  It  was  strange:  their  friendship 
was  deep  yet  what  vistas  had  it  leading  back  to  a  common 
source,  what  forward  avenues  of  life?  It  was  full  of  fire,  this 
friendship,  yet  where  was  its  warmth?  It  was  needful  to 
him,  yet  what  rest  had  he  of  it? 

David  who  had  sucked  vision  could  forget.  .  .  . 


XI 


CONSTANCE   BARDALE  had  left  early  that  Spring 
for   Europe.    David    could   not   say   that   he   really 
missed  her.     He  had  great  pleasure  in  looking  back 
upon  the  reality  of  them  together:  a  certain  satisfaction  in 
the  prospect  of  her  return  in  the  Fall.    He  was  not  prompted 
to  wish  to  hasten  that  return.    He  did  not  know  if  this  was 
missing  her. 

He  was  like  the  warming  weather.  He  had  his  days  of 
retrogression,  even  of  chill,  when  his  mood  was  overcast 
and  moist.  But  there  was  ever  the  underlying  progress  into 
Summer.  All  of  him  seemed  opening.  All  of  him  was  turned 
toward  some  generous  source  of  energy  within  that  made  him 
fresh  and  green.  He  was  resilient  with  growth.  The  squan- 
daries  of  the  world  had  no  effect  on  this  deep  calm  of  his 
state.  He  moved  in  rhythm  and  with  no  jarring  upward. 
Even  so  does  a  flower,  despite  the  crust  and  the  stone  it  must 
push  through.  The  observer  might  have  deemed  him  mo 
tionless:  a  poor  observer  who  could  have  said  the  same  thing 
of  the  flower. 

He  had  said  good-by  to  Constance  naturally  enough.  That 
was  the  most  delightful  thing  about  her.  She  compelled 
candor. 

She  moved  among  hat-boxes  and  deranged  chairs  draped 
with  flowing  garments. 

"David,  I  hope  you  won't  be  bored  without  me.  Come. 
Good-by.  You  had  better  run  along.  You'll  only  be  in 
the  way  when  aunt  arrives."  She  traveled  with  her  aunt. 
"If  you  feel  like  it,  write  me." 

252 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  253 

She  kissed  him  swiftly  on  his  lips — and  even  then,  though 
in  her  one  hand  was  a  pair  of  shoes,  in  the  other  a  pile  of 
lingerie,  and  though  her  eyes  were  upon  the  door  expecting 
her  aunt  to  open,  still  there  was  passion  in  that  moment. 
She  was  a  wonderful  woman:  a  true  American  in  specializa 
tion.  She  had  managed  to  pack  her  trunk  and  pack  away  her 
lover  without  placing  passion  in  the  bag  or  meticulousness  on 
her  lips. 

David  went  satisfied,  without  a  hint  of  her  ingenuity  in 
bringing  this  about. 

And  now  his  emotions  were  relieved  of  a  fixed  objective 
goal.  They  could  waft  outward,  vaguely.  David  found  de 
light  in  their  vagueness. 

It  was  the  same,  though  less  pointedly,  with  other  dwellers 
in  his  life.  Cornelia  was  always  and  largely  removed.  Un 
consciously,  David  kept  her  and  wanted  her  so.  He  saw  her 
not  more  than  once  in  a  fortnight.  He  did  not  really  see  her 
then.  He  talked  to  her;  looked  at  her;  listened  to  the  sounds 
of  her  voice  which  easily  resolved  into  the  accepted  syllables 
of  words.  But  he  was  deeply  unaware  of  her.  And  sadly. 
Since  she  bled  for  this  and  was  yet  unwilling  to  shock  her 
boy  into  a  knowledge  of  his  selfishness. 

She  knew  she  might  have.  Had  she  said:  "David,  you 
are  far  away.  What  is  between  us?  David,  look  really  into 
my  words,  look  really  into  me.  Don't  you  see  how  I  suffer 
when  you  remain  outside?"  David  would  have  come  to  her 
indeed,  like  the  half-tamed,  clumsy  cub  he  was,  into  her  arms 
and  begged  for  forgiveness.  But  that  could  not  be.  So  Cor 
nelia,  also,  was  pleasantly  removed  for  David.  And  this  was 
good,  since  then  he  could  read  into  the  picture  those  details 
he  liked:  delete  the  others. 

It  was  the  same  with  Business.  It  was  always  so  with 
Business  when  one  so  wanted  it.  David  discovered  that  Busi 
ness  was  more  like  a  woman  than  he  had  discovered  women: 


254  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

in  its  reticence,  in  its  immediate  response  to  his  desire,  either 
to  be  all  taken  up  and  quick  with  it,  or  to  be  left  spiritually 
alone.  He  found  as  his  moods  veered  and  alternated,  so 
followed  what  he  could  give  to  his  affairs  downtown.  If  he 
was  full  of  energy  to  spill  and  full  of  fancies  to  weave,  Busi 
ness  was  a  romantic  game  that  grappled  him  and  spent  him. 
Mr.  Barlow  had  taught  him  that.  But  if  he  was  misty  and 
gray  and  low,  Business  became  a  habit  exercise  that  barely 
held  his  mind,  unobtrusive  and  gray  like  his  own  forces.  And 
without  disaster.  He  could  plunge  into  it,  work  upon  it  with 
.every  muscle  of  his  body.  Or  he  could  hold  aloof  and  run  it 
with  two  disdainful  fingers.  He  could  thrust  eyes  upon  it 
close,  and  have  joy  of  its  jungle  of  tropic  passions,  or  poise  it 
philosophically  from  afar,  as  a  flat  patch  in  his  life  where  he 
grew  his  bread-and-butter.  Now  he  was  holding  it  endear 
ingly  aloof.  It  was  an  accommodating  thing  that  used  up  just 
enough  of  his  time  and  energy  to  leave  him  peaceful  and 
ruminant  at  night. 

Even  Tom  was  away.  He  was  gone  West  on  business. 
David  did  not  write.  He  made  no  effort  to  touch  the  actual 
departed  friend.  He  dwelt  with  his  own  vision  of  Tom,  un 
hampered  now  in  his  deep  will  to  find  it  altogether  perfect. 
For  the  nonce,  this  wearing  struggle  to  hold  it  perfect  was 
over.  This  Tom  in  his  mind  had  no  unfitting  angles.  Nor 
the  Tom  abstractly  speaking  to  him  from  afar. 

That  morning,  he  had  received  a  letter.    It  read: 


Greetings,  dear  friend: 

You  were  going  to  write  to  me  first  and  you  have  not,  and 
so  I  write  to  you,  because  I  am  thinking  of  you  this  eve 
ning,  and  that  is  the  time  to  write,  is  it  not?  I  have  been 
thinking  good  things  of  you;  it  seems  to  me  that  your  flavor 
has  precipitated,  and  that  I  feel  the  form  of  you,  as  I  never 
have  this  past  short  year.  I  find  myself  in  consequence  in 
an  apologetic  mood — and  perhaps  you  will  accept  even  that 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  255 

and  not  be  repelled,  since  you  have  accepted  so  many  moods 
of  mine,  and  been  dear  about  them,  and  filled  me  slowly — I 
am  aware  of  it  now — with  a  respect  and  an  admiration  and, 
yes,  something  deeper  than  these,  of  which  my  actions  and 
my  omissions  were  scarce  able  emissaries.  You  are  away 
now,  while  1  am  in  Chicago — silently  away,  since  you  have 
not  even  thought  of  me  to  write  to  me,  and  I  find  that  I  do 
not  blame  you  at  all:  that  I  admire  your  taste  and  your 
silence,  and  that  I  shall  look  forward  to  whatever  response 
this  brings  of  your  deigning  with  an  eager  gratefulness  that 
surprises  you  no  more  than  it  does  me.  Tom  chastened:  Tom 
in  full  view  at  length  of  a  loveliness  that  he  sensed  and  went 
for,  perhaps  as  one  goes  for  the  summit  of  a  mountain:  the 
moment  one  is  upon  the  trail,  all  one's  energies  are  lost  in 
climbing  and  fighting  snags  and  underbrush  and  rocks,  and 
the  summit  is  beyond  eye  and  soon  out  of  thought:  yet  is  it 
the  less  for  it  that  the  unblazed  trail  is  dared?  You  are  a 
very  rare  person:  you  have  given  me  so  much  of  myself  that 
I  shall  be  happy  of  you,  even  if  I  continue  in  this  mood  of 
being  mad  at  myself  that  I  did  not  give  more.  And  yet  what 
more  could  I  have  given?  Would  you  take  more,  David?  It 
is  true  that  I  have  an  excuse.  You  found  me  in  the  flush  that 
was  really  the  sign  of  a  true  decomposition,  a  deep  giving 
away  of  my  nerves  that  might  have  been  ruin  in  one  less 
trained  to  fighting.  Or  that  might  have  been  nothing  in  one 
less  addicted  to  work.  You  see,  work-to-success  seemed  neces 
sary  to  me.  When  I  do  no  work,  my  mind  gets  me  into  trouble: 
I  am  a  geyser  of  wastestuffs:  if  I  cannot  empty  myself  into 
work,  I  am  likely  to  empty  some  one  else  in  a  perverse  replica 
of  play.  You  have  seen  that,  David.  I  worked  while  I  should 
have  been  in  some  happy  clime  watching  the  skies  and  bathing 
and  walking  and  smoking  pipes  of  peace  (if  only  pipes  did  not 
make  me  sick) :  I  worked  while  the  day's  task  used  more 
than  the  night  brought  of  strength.  I  neared  bankruptcy, 
but  being  an  American  that  did  not  bother  me — and  I  put  on 
brighter  colors  for  the  approaching  doom.  In  the  crisis  of 

eight  years  of  this,  you  found  me,  David :   and  what  a 

dour  childhood  of  preparation  before  it!  Endless,  endless. 
Working  for  Cornelia,  working  for  myself — working  toward 
nothing.  For  I  am  in  it  still.  I  shall  try  to  put  off  the  day 
of  bankruptcy  until  I  am  fifty  or  more:  then  liquidate  by 


256  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

dying.  But  you  caught  me  in  the  first  cold  experience  of 
being  weak  and  sick  and  unable  to  spend  prodigally  and  not 
feel  anything  but  bulging  coffers  in  the  morning:  in  the  first 
terrible  condition  of  knowing  I  must  work,  though  work 
was  vile,  and  that  no  other  work  was  present  for  my  hands. 
That,  does  it  explain  my  sudden  horridnesses,  r,iy  fevers,  my 
cruelties  to  us  both — your  word?  I  am  not  cruel,  Davie,  I 
am  full  of  love.  Oh!  why  won't  you — you  and  a  few  blessed 
others  whom  I  need  the  knowledge  of  in  this  fearful  gorgeous 
world — why  won't  you  understand?  Can  you  not  see  me 
going  out  into  the  streets  of  New  York — yes,  even  here  in 
Chicago — full  of  love  for  the  dull  men  and  the  stricken  women, 
ready  to  give  myself  to  them  all,  if  only  they  would  take  me — 

take  me  a  moment :  full  of  love  for  the  magic  of  their 

flesh  and  the  mystery  of  their  life  and  the  splendor  of  their 
anguish?  Oh!  David,  I  love  so  much  more  than  there  is  in 
the  world  willing.  I  am  a  sea  of  love  cluttered  in  a  basin.  And 
when  I  am  cried  a  little  welcome,  I  mess  everything  up  in  my 
attempt  to  fit  to  a  mortal  measure.  I  have  spoken  to  you — 
we  have  even  quarreled — about  little  children.  Don't  you  see 
why?  Why  I  was  enraged  at  the  idea  of  your  speculating 
upon  whether  you  wished  a  child  or  no?  Identification.  Sud 
denly,  I  am  a  child,  and  I  do  not  care  a  damn  about  reason, 
I  want  only  not  to  be  left  outside  and  unalive  by  my  beloved. 
Often  when  I  speak  to  a  man  or  woman,  Davie,  something 
bleeds  in  my  breast.  And  then  I  have  headaches,  and  the 
wise  doctor  says:  use  'brakes' — do  not  give  yourself  so  much 
— walk  the  streets  indifferently.  Easy,  eh?  Indifferently! 
When  all  of  life  floods  all  my  senses  like  a  corybantic  passion: 
a  perpetual  sea  of  infinite  elements  each  of  which  is  attached 
to  my  nerves  and  to  my  heart.  I  cannot  help  loving  people, 
so  I  hate  them.  For  they  are  not  what  I  would  have  them 
be:  they  are  deaf  and  they  do  not  love  me.  And  children— 
whose  lives  go  before  me  out  of  my  hands  and  my  sight  like 
the  horizon  and  the  skies — is  it  a  wonder  my  hands  are 
stretched  after  them  and  that  I  suffer  at  my  impotence?  But, 
Davie,  I  am  not  cruel.  I  love — and  I  cannot  reach  what  I 
love.  My  hard-headed  lawyer  friends  quip  me,  calling  mystic 
my  wandering  thoughts — the  best  of  them.  But  I  am  filled 
with  a  sense  of  dimensions,  flaring  and  parabolic,  and  the 
world  their  sense  is  comfortable  in,  is  a  strand  of  what  I  feel 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  257 

and  see:  and  the  magic  that  draws  me  to  the  world  is  the 
fact  that  it  careers  in  an  element  outside  myself.  There,  per 
haps,  imprisoned  in  the  flesh  of  a  woman  is  the  thing  I  love — 
and  I  am  outside — oh,  fatally  outside.  If  I  open  that  flesh  I 
am  laughed  at  by  blood  and  death.  Life — life,  I  seek  it.  For 
I  see  it:  and  it  is  maddening  to  be  alive. 

This  is  a  funny  letter,  is  it  not?  But  you  must  under 
stand,  and  never  again  call  cruel  the  man  whose  eyes  are  for 
ever  full  of  the  vision  of  loving,  and  whose  body  is  a  prison, 
a  terribly  real  prison — and  who  knows  that  the  world  is  a 
bewildering  texture  of  abyss  and  reality,  of  filth  and  flowers. 
I  shall  go  hunting,  killing  myself  through  life,  David,  simply 
because  I  am  hungry.  Do  not  forget  that.  I  know  the  false 
hood  of  the  game.  Do  not  forget  that  either.  My  real  self, 
my  mocking  sense  of  life,  my  outrageous  need  of  love,  of  love, 
of  love — that  will  go  silent  to  the  grave,  when  the  gods  have 
had  their  laugh  of  it.  For  truly  I  am  a  little  like  a  toyboat 
that  the  gods  have  placed  upon  the  waters,  and  blown  upon, 
that  scuds  its  pretty  maddening  moment,  steerless,  useless, 
against  the  inevitable  stop  on  the  pool's  other  side. 

Write  to  me.  TOM. 

David's  day  was  pitched  by  it  still  higher.  His  moving 
through  the  life  of  the  City  had  a  lyric  lilt.  Its  meanest 
shred  came  to  expression  in  the  tune  he  hummed.  Until  Mr. 
Barlow  said: 

"Is  that  the  one  song  you  know?" 

David  stopped.  His  energy  was  only  for  the  moment  with 
out  outlet.  He  jumped  up,  and  used  it  to  propel  his  body. 

"I  don't  feel  a  bit  like  working,  this  afternoon." 

"There  you  are,  thinking  of  this  as  work!  Can't  you  get 
cured  of  that,  David?" 

The  young  man  stopped  at  the  desk  of  his  Chief  who  had 
become  his  friend.  He  was  pensive.  He  put  one  hand  on 
the  blotter  and  looked  beyond  the  labyrinth  of  papers. 

"How  differently  you  and  my  uncle  look  at  business!  He 
prides  himself  that  it  is  the  most  serious  and  laborious  work 
in  the  world." 


258  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

"That  is  his  play,"  Mr.  Barlow  twinkled.  Then  they 
laughed  together. 

"You  see,"  he  went  on,  leaning  back  in  his  swivel-chair 
and  blowing  the  first  fragrant  puff  of  his  new  cigar  into 
David's  eyes,  "you  see,  my  boy,  your  uncle  is  a  romantic 
figure.  That  is  why  he  takes  business  so  realistically.  I  am 
a  new  generation:  oh  yes  I  am,  despite  my  age!  I  am  a  real 
ist:  a  man  who  sees  exactly  what  there  is  to  see:  that  is  why 
I  take  business  romantically." 

David  thought  this  a  bit  topsy-turvy.  But  he  had  no  way 
out;  he  started  figuring  Mr.  Barlow's  words.  Mr.  Barlow 
kept  blowing  fragrant  puffs  up  toward  his  face. 

"That,"  he  went  on,  "is  the  reason  why  your  uncle  is  so 
much  more  successful  than  I  am."  His  soft  red  lips  curled 
cheerfully  and  he  sent  a  mighty  wreath  of  smoke  as  salutation 
against  David's  nose. 

David  pondered.  His  uncle,  who  saw  too  little  of  the  world 
even  to  understand  the  slightest  of  its  parts,  was  by  his  ignor 
ance  able  to  take  Business  as  the  whole,  throw  all  of  himself 
upon  it,  and  be  rich.  Mr.  Barlow  understood  the  pattern  of 
life's  parts,  was  able  to  make  a  pleasant  game  of  that  portion 
of  it  where  he  found  himself.  And  he  earned  an  excellent 
living,  even  if  he  was  not  rich. 

"You  are  happier  than  my  uncle." 

At  once,  Mr.  Barlow  was  pensive. 

"Happiness  is  the  biggest  fraud  of  all,  David.  Have  no 
dealings  with  it.  If  it  tries  to  make  terms  with  you,  cut  it 
dead." 

David  noticed  a  peculiar  trait.  When  Mr.  Barlow's  face 
was  in  repose,  as  now,  there  was  a  sweet  sadness  upon  it.  But 
he  could  change  this.  It  was  as  if  he  were  aware  of  David 
looking  at  his  sadness.  His  quick  clear  eyes  began  to  twinkle 
as  if  this  were  in  itself  a  joke. 

"We  must  not  compare  happiness.    That's  all  nonsense." 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  259 

"What  then  is  serious?" 

"What  is  serious?"  He  leaned  back  and  took  David  in. 
"It  is  serious  that  you  should  leave  this  office  this  very 
moment  and  go  meandering  as  your  fancy  prompts.  Go!  ... 
Get  along." 

David  ran  for  his  hat. 

"Well,  that  is  for  my  happiness,  is  it  not?" 

"It  is  not!  It  is  for  your  health."  Mr.  Barlow  looked  very 
stern. 

David  hesitated  at  the  door.  He  came  back  to  Mr.  Bar 
low's  side  and  once  more,  this  time  timidly,  put  his  out 
stretched  fingers  on  the  blotter. 

"You  know  how  much  I  appreciate  you,  don't  you,  Mr. 
Barlow?" 

Mr.  Barlow  took  up  a  letter,  screwed  his  glasses  grimacingly 
to  his  nose,  and  began  to  read. 

"David,"  as  his  head  moved  swiftly  from  side  to  side  in 
pursuit  of  the  words,  "you  are  wasting  your  free  afternoon." 

Now  David  was  not  wasting  it.  In  his  pocket  was  the 
letter  of  Tom.  In  his  head  was  the  cheer  of  Mr.  Barlow. 
Before  him  and  above  him  swarmed  the  amazing  City.  .  .  . 

He  was  on  a  street  full  of  department  stores.  Women  of 
all  ages  hurried  past  him,  talking,  ceaselessly  talking.  In  their 
hands  were  the  signs  of  the  battle  they  loved  to  wage:  pack 
ages,  purses:  in  their  eyes  the  promise  of  further  conquest. 
David  felt  that  he  was  in  a  strange,  not  hostile  land.  He  was 
tolerated  here,  because  he  was  not  noticed.  He  stepped  into 
a  long,  dense  building.  Endless  counters  packed  with  women 
led  away  in  the  bustle  and  gloom.  Voices  were  not  so  high 
as  the  press  of  feet  and  the  surge  of  skirts.  Stiff  men  stood 
above  the  buffeting  hordes  like  monstrous  curios  in  their 
white  linen  and  their  flaring  somber  coats.  Gaslamps  tremored 
under  the  oppressed  ceiling  as  if  they  stood  guard  against  an 


26o  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

invasion  from  below.  It  seemed  that  the  frangent  feminine 
commotion  would  swell,  rise  and  sweep  them  out.  David 
was  stifled  already.  There  was  no  room  for  him,  there  was 
no  room  even  for  air  to  breathe.  He  was  in  the  street  again. 
Here  the  flood  had  interstices  of  day:  the  day  broke  with  its 
blue  gleam  upon  the  ranks  of  the  women:  splintered,  but 
entered  in  and  spread  a  living  lightness  through  their  heavy 
marches.  Here  one  could  see,  not  a  mass  alone,  sweeping 
the  street,  but  individual  women  with  faces  and  eyes.  Here 
even  one  saw  pretty  women. 

David  had  not  known  how  many  pretty  ones  there  were. 
It  was  bewildering,  this  extravagance  of  nature.  The  street 
was  of  stone  and  brick,  it  reared  its  jagged  way  through  the 
world,  loaded  with  the  metallic  cut  of  cars,  flanked  by  the 
sibilance  of  uneven  roofage  and  fagades  and  the  clamor  of 
advertisements;  it  fell  swift  into  smallness  beyond  a  Square. 
Here  it  was  arrogant,  it  domineered  with  its  wide  high  skirts 
of  stone  and  its  bonnets  turreting  aloft — the  shuttle  of  feet 
like  a  leather  lathe  beneath.  And  yet,  immersed  in  it,  David 
found  that  it  was  soaked  in  charm  and  that  it  drew  his  senses. 
For  he  had  picked  out  the  presence  of  women:  women  that 
had  lips  and  warm  bodies  and  whose  arms  could  hold  children. 
At  once  these  were  the  street  and  were  greater  than  the  street. 
In  their  domain  he  was  walking. 

He  was  not  wasting  his  free  afternoon.  This  was  health 
indeed.  It  was  health  to  feel  this  pour  of  a  thousand  homes 
upon  him:  all  of  these  homes'  secret  tenderness  and  passion. 
It  was  health  to  shake  his  head  at  the  hard  buildings,  and 
know  them  worsted  by  women!  .  .  . 

But  tiring.     David  boarded  a  car. 

The  car  gave  a  lurch.  The  movement  split  the  car's  in 
habitants  into  two  separate  groups:  they  who  smiled  and 
they  who  grumbled.  David  was  smiling.  Clumsily  he  righted 
himself,  he  found  that  he  did  not  wish  to  change  the  position 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  261 

of  his  eyes.  They  were  looking  at  a  little  girl,  who  had  been 
smiling  also.  But  now,  the  two  were  serious  looking  at  each 
other. 

She  was  a  little  girl  riding  beside  her  governess.  She  had 
great  black  eyes.  The  gleaming  iris  almost  crowded  out  the 
white.  She  had  brows  that  were  high  and  thin  and  arched 
and  between  her  brows  and  her  eyes  the  flesh  was  dimpled. 

She  tilted  her  head  backward  and  smiled  at  him. 

David  gripped  his  seat  with  his  two  hands,  and  smiled  at 
her. 

She  was  beside  an  opaque  cutting  thing  that  was  a  woman 
and  was  a  governess.  Thick  glasses  tied  to  a  black  string 
that  ended  in  a  hideous  enameled  clasp  on  a  white  starched 
waist.  Eyes  shiny  and  convex  like  the  glasses.  f  Nose  pointed 
down,  mouth  cutting  in,  chin  pushing  upward.  And  beside 
her  a  loveliness  that  came  across  the  car  and  that  he  held 
now  far  from  the  car  and  the  street,  in  his  silence. 

It  came  to  David  softly  that  he  loved  this  little  girl.  She 
smiled  at  him,  as  if  she  thanked  him  and  were  glad.  Could 
he  put  his  love  in  a  smile  and  give  it  to  her? 

She  stirred  in  her  seat.  She  tossed  out  her  legs,  first  one, 
then  the  other.  She  threw  herself  back  so  that  her  legs  thrust 
out,  she  met  him  fully  and  beamed  on  him. 

She  was  unafraid,  beyond  all  he  had  ever  known.  What 
could  he  give  her,  and  do,  to  show  her  his  love? 

He  had  his  eyes  and  his  smile.  To  give  her  his  life  with. 
He  put  words  into  his  look  at  her:  till  his  eyes  had  tears  of 
their  fullness.  He  said  to  her  so: 

"Little  girl  with  the  gray  fur  bonnet  and  the  gray  fur 
coat  and  the  laughing  soul,  I  love  you.  I  have  never  seen 
you  before.  I  shall  never  see  you  again.  I  shall  always  see 
you " 

She  was  smiling  so  clear!  What  did  she  know?  What  did 
she  not  know,  perhaps?  Pain  stopped  the  words  of  his 


262  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

eyes.  He  got  up.  He  passed  her.  Why  could  he  not  touch 
her,  why  could  he  not  come  and  play  with  her  where  she 
lived?  A  little  girl! 

He  stood  in  the  street  and  the  car  groaned  past  him.  She 
was  kneeling  on  her  seat  and  her  face  pressed  against  the 
window.  She  was  motionless,  gazing  into  him  with  serious 
lovely  eyes  while  the  car  swung  her  away  into  the  trackless 
future. 

David's  lips  moved:  "Good-by.  I  do  not  understand.  .  .  . 
Do  you?  .  .  ." 

She  was  gone.  Jft 

Many  things  were  gone. 

David,  walking  the  dim  sunless  City,  walked  as  through 
himself.  And  as  he  went  he  missed  the  lights  that  an  hour 
before,  of  their  own  cheer,  had  lit  the  corridors  of  his  being 
and  made  him  all,  all  of  the  City,  so  glad  a  habitation.  He 
missed  these  things,  he  learned  how  many  they  were. 

He  did  not  think  of  the  strange  little  girl.  She  had  been 
fleckless  beautiful.  She  had  been  more  than  that  in  the 
miracle  of  her  spell  upon  him.  For  this  he  groped.  In  his 
mind  was  the  vision  of  her  budding  life,  sweet,  ineffably  sweet 
like  an  unopened  rose  in  the  dew  of  the  dawn.  She  had  left 
a  wound  in  his  heart — the  stab  of  her  vision — from  which 
now  his  blood  seemed  unstintingly  to  flow. 

He  thought  of  himself  alone.  Sudden  all  his  proud  con 
tentment  was  away.  Not  clouded,  this  time,  as  it  had  been 
so  often.  Away.  It  was  gone  surely,  like  the  little  girl. 

His  contentment.  What  then  had  it  been?  The  parts  of 
it  that  were  no  more  he  could  piece  together  into  a  memory 
of  his  contentment. 

It  had  been  a  haze  covering  the  way  of  his  feet,  blinding  his 
eyes,  wrapping  him  in  darkness.  He  saw  now.  He  saw  that 
his  feet  had  carried  him  a  way  different  from  the  haze  of 
his  contentment. 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  263 

He  thought  of  his  emptiness.  He  seemed  to  recognize  it, 
now,  as  if  it  had  long  been  there.  The  absence  of  Tom  and 
Constance — was  this  the  absence  of  two  great  parts  of  his 
emptiness  permitting  him  at  last  to  know  them — since  their 
absence  was  in  a  measure  their  negation,  the  first  timorous 
return  from  an  emptiness  that  filled  him  to  a  fullness  that  he 
lacked?  He  could  not  go  in  very  far.  His  mind  was  strange 
ly  cramped  with  pain.  He  knew  much,  however.  He  knew 
he  did  not  love  Constance  and  that  there  is  no  substitute  for 
love.  He  knew  he  did  not  fully  respect  his  dearest  friend 
and  that  for  this  there  was  no  solace.  Most  of  all  he  knew 
his  life  was  sterile:  despite  its  blandishments  and  its  colors, 
its  devouring  of  hours,  it  lacked  something  he  needed.  Some 
thing  he  needed  as  he  might  thirst  for  water  in  a  land  that 
held  everything  else. 

Sterile  work:  sterile  friendship:  sterile  embraces.  It  was 
not  so  simple  as  this,  but  here  was  the  germ  that  desiccated 
him,  turned  his  impulses  from  action,  deflected  life  from  liv 
ing.  He  did  not  live.  Thence  came  that  he  did  not  risk, 
that  he  went  safe,  that  he  won  materials  and  pleasures.  To 
what  end  since  he  did  not  live?  He  compromised  with  love, 
he  compromised  with  dreams.  That  was  the  technique  of 
his  succeeding:  to  cheat  his  body  into  love-affairs,  his  mind 
into  business,  his  loyalties  into  friendship.  To  what  end 
since  he  did  not  live?  And  if  the  miracle  was,  that  life  lay 
in  the  risk  rather  than  in  succeeding,  in  love  rather  than  in 
the  love-affair,  in  the  dream  rather  than  in  any  fact? 

Oh,  he  could  not  understand.  He  did  not  know  what  to 
do.  If  his  ways  were  wrong,  his  relations  false,  how  could 
he  change  them?  He  dragged  through  a  morass,  not  knowing. 

Now  suddenly,  his  clear  thoughts  held  within  them,  as  if  in 
an  embrace,  the  little  girl.  He  saw  the  resilience  of  that  fresh 
young  life:  its  pride,  its  firmness.  He  saw  how  it  must  stoop 
and  bend  and  give,  if  it  would  avoid  the  pains  that  waited  it 


264  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

growing  into  the  world.  If  it  would  win  ease,  it  must  lose — 
lose  all  that  made  it  lovely!  Lose  its  fine  fresh  sweetness. 
David  pondered  on  this.  Would  that  election  satisfy  him? 
Would  it  be  well  to  see  that  loveliness  gray  away  in  price 
for  the  escape  from  pain?  He  heard  his  answer  clear.  At  all 
costs  the  bravery  of  youth,  the  firm  coolness  of  which  her 
flesh  was  symbol — at  cost  of  any  pain,  of  all  defeat! 

A  deceiving  gladness  came  to  David:  a  gratitude  that  he 
was  still  somewhat  like  that  little  girl.  .  .  .  Had  they  not 
smiled  at  each  other? 


XII 


THE  train  swung  Tom  southward  from  Chicago  about 
the  duned  neck  of  the  Lake.  The  sun  broke  at  last 
in  clear  sky  upon  him.  The  everlasting  smoke  sank 
behind  like  dust  of  a  departed  battle.  .  .  .  Tom  had  the 
vision  of  the  town  of  his  childhood. 

The  train  was  swimming  up  the  path  of  the  sun.  The  world 
cut  flat  from  the  train's  stride  like  a  sea  from  the  prow  of 
a  racing  vessel.  The  horizon  swayingly  scooped:  trees  low 
and  faint  in  the  shrill  sky,  nude  in  young  leaves,  lascivious  in 
blossoms,  almost  bowled  over  by  the  roll  of  the  world — and 
the  blue  belch  of  sturdier  chimneys  beyond,  scattered  half- 
acres  of  hell  spewing  soot  and  shadow  over  a  scarred  and 
flowered  prairie.  In  his  eyes  now  an  old  sick  town.  .  .  . 

The  long  street  swooned  under  foliage.  Trees  crowded  be 
tween  the  two  rows  of  houses  as  if  they  had  burst  them  apart. 
Under  their  arrogant  verdure  the  little  wooden  boxes  of  men 
crouched  and  were  smothered.  A  man  came  out  from  the 
dull  pressure:  he  walked  into  the  sway  of  the  trees:  he  went 
forth  to  his  toil:  he  was  immersed  in  the  redundance  of 
fields. 

Tom  went  back  to  the  town  of  his  childhood  armed  with 
his  intelligence.  He  thought  he  saw  with  understanding. 
Through  the  window  of  the  train,  he  found  his  face  fleeing 
across  the  prairie.  "I  understand,"  he  whispered  to  himself. 

"I  understand  the  tyrannies  that  oppressed  my  people:  the 
tyrannies  that  formed  them.  The  vastness  of  the  soil  and  of 
its  fruit:  the  dying  spiritual  world  my  fathers  packed  with 
them  from  Europe,  and  into  which  they  tried  to  cram — what 

265 


266  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

new  bursts  of  passion,  what  new  world's  splendors!  I  see 
what  treasure  and  promise  were  these  fields  and  hills — and 
the  little  hands,  the  littler  minds  and  tools  with  which  to 
work  them.  Of  course,  there  came  blindness  upon  the  dazzle- 
ment,  penury  upon  their  drunken  spending,  fear  of  the  Spirit 
upon  their  rape  of  the  Earth.  What  masters  my  fathers  must 
have  been  not  to  have  been  mastered  by  America!" 

Tom  understood  why  the  men  of  ripe  New  York  were 
shrunken  midges  beneath  the  stuff  of  their  buildings:  and  the 
still  unuttered  fate  of  Chicago:  and  why  Chicago,  with  its 
long  soiled  lazy  hands,  had  held  his  heart. 

"I  am  of  the  West.  I  had  forgotten — but  I  am  of  the 
West!  To  think  that  ten  years  of  New  York  could  have 
made  me  forget.  Chicago  claimed  me!" 

New  York  was  a  place  of  exile.  There  they  whose  lives 
were  done  or  were  denied  builded  State  upon  the  principle 
of  their  death.  New  York  was  a  gaunt,  ghost  City:  a  dwell 
ing  place  of  shadows  that  towered  above  men. 

What  was  New  York  against  this  splendor  of  plains,  against 
Chicago?  wide  crude  child  city  with  the  loud  voice  and  the 
playful  heart,  with  the  swift  gait  and  the  lumberly  laborer's 
mind?  What  was  New  York  against  the  love  of  his  dis 
covered  home? 

Tom  began  to  wonder  what  irony  had  drawn  him  Eastward. 

"The  promise  of  life?"  he  whispered  to  himself,  "the 
promise  of  life?" 

His  chair  was  toward  the  window,  he  spoke  to  his  reflected 
face  and  the  fleeing  plains.  A  knoll  of  green  flashed  past 
with  a  stream  curling  and  in  the  shadow  a  clustered  farm: 
the  remembered  scent  of  clover  and  the  warm  sweetness  of 
new  green  life  were  a  cloud  over  his  mind. 

"I  wonder,  does  the  lure  of  death  come  always  disguised 
as  a  fulfillment?  Perhaps,  when  a  man  takes  his  life  does 
he  hope  to  achieve  it?  Cornelia  and  I — God!  how  we  were 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  267 

glad  of  the  calculated  pavements  of  Manhattan."  But  surely, 
he  had  left  death  behind?  Was  he  growing  sentimental? 
What  a  strange  mood  he  was  in.  His  father,  the  dilapidated 
farm — life,  that?  Very  well:  law,  the  nervous  flutter  he 
called  success  in  the  city — life,  that,  more?  He  shook  his 
head.  He  saw  he  did  not  understand  after  all.  .  .  .  And  yet, 
America  in  Chicago — Chicago  in  the  American  plains — • 
gripped  him  and  called  him  as  never  before.  .  .  . 

Chicago?  where  Industry,  a  dirty  giant,  flung  and  heaped 
its  refuse  upon  the  dwellings  of  men?  He  could  not  under 
stand.  But  he  felt  a  poignance — of  symbol — in  himself 
yearning  Westward,  yearning  backward  against  the  way  of 
the  train  to  where  America  lay  impassioned  beneath  the  com 
ing  sun. 

He  stepped  into  New  York,  its  life  came  to  him  through 
splinter  of  movement  with  a  sharp  pathos.  The  dust  of 
their  traffic  were  these  men  and  women  swirling  slow:  their 
impress  upon  the  places  they  had  built  was  naught.  An  air 
of  enervation  lay  over  the  clefts  of  houses,  seeped  down  into 
the  channels  of  men. 

Then  Tom  lost  the  sense  of  separation.  The  great 
Metropolis  came  like  an  iron  cloak  and  made  him  invisi 
ble.  .  .  . 

Out  of  the  confusion  of  his  life  he  saw  some  things  clearly 
and  aimed  at  them:  he  saw  some  things  vaguely  and  these  he 
avoided.  He  sensed  that  the  vague  things  were  the  vital: 
were  of  the  color  and  stuff  of  that  confusion  which  was  his 
life:  and  that  the  clear  things  were  trivial  and  lying. 

Marcia  Duffield  and  King  Van  Ness  were  not  yet  engaged. 
A  particular  and  naked  problem.  Tom  feared  the  cynicism 
of  the  girl  he  had  loved.  "One  thing,  one  thing  alone  can 
spoil  this,"  went  his  thoughts.  "If  she  out  of  some  mood 


268  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

abandoned  her  resistance.  She  might  for  spite,  bravado,  bit 
terness,  what  not?  One  such  false  gesture  and  Van  Ness 
stops  the  hunt.  He  might  possibly  do  an  injury  to  himself: 
grow  thoughtful  for  instance.  But  he'd  never  marry  a  girl 
that  let  him  kiss  her  without  a  diamond  ring." 

Laura  Duffield  held  out  her  hand  for  his.  "I  am  young 
yet.  This  is  my  only  life.  What  am  I  doing  with  it?"  Tom 
thought  and  clasped  the  hand  of  his  friend  and  laughed — 
the  lust  of  the  Game,  Van  Ness,  Stone  and  Company  to  be 
pried  open,  the  delicious  recalcitrance  of  Marcia  to  be  tasted 
and  crushed — and  forgot. 

"You  are  worrying  about  something?  What  is  it?"  At  last 
he  was  conscious  of  Laura  Duffield:  his  trivial  words  were 
over. 

She  was  ageing.  There  was  a  drawn  tightness  about  her 
eyes,  a  sag  at  her  throat.  It  was  a  day  on  which  she  was 
not  looking  well.  And  looking  well  was  coming  to  be  an  art, 
these  years  of  life  when  art  grows  difficult.  Debts.  The  in 
credible  burden  of  holding  up  her  head. 

"Come  and  sit  beside  me,  Tom." 

She  was  graceful.  The  couch  was  low.  She  sat  ensconced 
in  a  corner,  her  outstretched  arm  hung  in  a  flimsy  sleeve, 
color  of  faded  violet.  Her  skin  like  the  sleeve  was  dim.  Her 
eyes  and  the  stones  in  her  rings  were  bright. 

"You  are  so  quick  to  understand.  I  am  going  to  tell  you. 
I'm  worrying  about  Marcia." 

"That  won't  help  us,  you  know." 

"Why  can't  she  make  up  her  mind  to  love  some  one?" 

Tom  laughed.  "What  a  lot  of  contradictions  in  a  little 
sentence!" 

"I  don't  know — I  don't  know  what  we  may  have  to  do." 

She  seemed,  after  all,  resigned.  If  Marcia  could  love  no 
one,  with  her  mind  or  without,  let  her  stay  single. 

"She  hasn't  accepted  Van  Ness  yet?" 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  269 

Laura  Duffield  shook  her  head. 

Tom  thought  swiftly. 

"Where  is  Marcia?    Is  she  in?    Tell  her  I  am  here?" 

The  mother  arose  and  called  the  girl.  Marcia  came  to  the 
door,  stood  silent. 

"Hello,  Marcia.  I  came  to  see  you,  this  evening.  Not 
your  Mamma."  He  believed  it.  He  wanted  to  be  with  her — 
all  else  was  a  pretext. 

"Yes:  and  it's  lucky  too,"  Mrs.  Duffield  bustled  to  her 
desk.  "I  have  a  thousand  letters  to  answer.  Do  be  dears, 
and  leave  me  alone." 

She  was  settled  and  her  back  was  on  them.  She  was  look 
ing  better.  Such  confidence  she  had  in  Tom! 

He  followed  Marcia.  She  went  to  the  opposite  corner  of 
her  room:  near  her  cheval  glass.  She  stood  there.  Tom 
closed  the  door,  let  his  weight  lean  upon  it,  then  seated  him 
self  in  a  broad  arm-chair.  Her  whiteness  was  taut:  her  black 
hair  and  eyes  were  hot.  A  tremble  swift  and  faint  sang 
through  her.  She  found  she  could  not  stop  it.  She  moved 
and  took  up  an  ivory  brush,  she  strove  to  let  her  trembling 
flow  from  her  two  hands  to  it.  It  was  a  very  long  time  since 
Tom  and  she  were  alone. 

"Marcia,  please  sit  down." 

She  complied  at  once:  she  flushed  with  anger  that  she  had. 
Tom  came  and  leaned  over  her.  He  looked  obliquely  at  her 
great  black  eyes  and  the  sharp  perfection  of  her  chin  and  the 
way  of  her  white  throat.  He  put  his  open  hands  on  her 
hair,  he  turned  her  face  upward  toward  him.  He  placed  his 
closed  lips  on  her  parted  ones.  His  hands  slipped  down  her 
face,  her  neck,  her  body.  He  stood  away.  She  said : 

"Why  do  you  do  that,  Tom?" 

"That  is  how  I  feel." 

"Don't  lie,  Tom." 

"I  am  not  lying,  Marcia." 


270  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

Her  eyes  blazed  up.  It  was  a  burst  of  bravery  and  chal 
lenge.  They  crumpled.  She  hid  her  head  in  her  arms,  she 
wept. 

Tom  put  his  hand  firmly  to  the  back  of  her  head  where 
the  hair  was  caught  away  from  the  neck. 

"Listen,  Marcia,  I  am  not  lying.    Listen,  please,  Marcia." 

She  was  silent,  if  she  was  still  weeping.  She  did  not  raise 
her  head. 

Tom  leaned  and  kissed  her  neck.  The  faint  scent  of  her 
hair  in  his  eyes. 

Marcia  straightened  sudden.  He  met  the  attack  of  her 
gesture. 

"Now  listen,  do  you  hear?" 

She  stayed  balanced,  looking  at  him  straight:  her  eyes 
filled  with  an  ironic  hunger.  So  Tom  wanted  her.  He  began 
before  she  changed. 

"You  have  never  understood  me,  Marcia.  I  can't  blame 
you.  I  have  never  understood  myself.  I  am  honest  with 
you.  I  have  always  been.  Perhaps  it  was  expecting  too 
much,  dear,  that  you  should  be  able  to  stand  that.  .  .  . 
Marcia,  I  care  for  you  now,  as  I  did  before,  more  than  for 
any  woman  in  the  world." 

She  dropped  her  eyes  and  began  to  finger  the  embroidery 
of  her  chair. 

"I  go  through  strange  tides,  Marcia.  I  cannot  help  that. 
Most  men  have  hypocrisy  to  hide  these  ebbs.  Most  women 
have  passiveness.  I  have  neither.  So  I  suffer.  .  .  .  Marcia," 
he  went  on,  "I  do  not  want  to  lose  you.  But  also  I  do  not 
want  to  hurt  you.  Can't  I  have  you,  without  hurting  you, 
Marcia!  It  was  because  I  had  not  answered  that  question, 
that  I  forced  myself  away,  forced  myself  cool." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Tom?" 

He  took  a  chair  and  brought  it  beside  hers  and  seated  him 
self.  With  a  great  calm  he  heard  himself  say: 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  271 

"Marcia — will  you  marry  me?" 

"I  should  love  to,  Tom." 

"We  could  manage.  I  might  even  gradually  start  to  pay 
off  your  Mamma's  debts.  A  little  flat.  Two  weeks  at  the  sea 
shore.  A  cook.  .  .  ." 

He  spoke  very  seriously,  with  each  item  stroked  the  slender 
pearly  hand  he  had  taken. 

Marcia  withdrew  it.     "Don't  be  a  silly,  Tom." 

He  jumped  up.  He  drew  her  after  him:  he  held  her  close, 
kissed  her  throat. 

"It  is  not  impossible.     I  want  you,  Marcia." 

"You  have  had  me." 

"I  have  never  had  you."  He  thrust  her  away  and  walked 
to  where  she  first  had  faced  him.  "You  know  I  have  never 

had  you,  Marcia.  How  can  you — oh !"  He  threw  up  his 

arms  and  stopped. 

Marcia  came  closer.  "Tom,"  she  said,  "what  do  you  really 
want  of  me?" 

"Yourself.  .  .  ."  He  paused.  "But  without  the  sense  that 
I  am  harming  you.  Yourself,  without  restraint." 

"Why  did  you  leave  me,  Tom?" 

"I'll  tell  you.  Despise  me,  if  you  will.  I'll  tell  you.  Be 
cause  I  had  a  guilty  conscience.  Because  I  thought  not  alone 
of  your  future  but  of  your  mother.  Because  I  seemed  unable 
to  be  either  your  lover  or  your  husband." 

She  smiled. 

"You're  not  the  sort  of  man  one  should  marry." 

"Unfortunately  I  lack  qualifications."  He  put  bitterness 
into  his  voice.  She  was  sure — and  glad — she  had  hurt  him. 
"But  civilized  standards  have  nothing  to  do  with  love.  I 
could  love  a  woman,  if  only  she  were  in  a  civilized  way  dis 
posed  of,  so  that  we  could  afford  the  luxury." 

Marcia  laughed  and  placed  her  hand  back  in  his. 

"Why  have  you  never  put  things  this  way  before?" 


272  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

"Never  put  things  this  way  before?"  He  was  amazed. 
He  burst  out  laughing.  "Really,  my  dear,  this  is  too  ironic. 
I  had  given  you  up:  I  had  given  you  a  free  hand  to  marry. 
I  was  prepared  to  lose  you  permanently  rather  than  stand 
even  temporarily  in  your  way.  But  you  did  not  marry.  What 
did  that  mean?  I  didn't  know.  How  could  I?  But  what 
should  keep  me  from  hoping?  Any  fool  may  do  that.  At 
least  there  was  the  circumstantial  evidence  that  you  had  not 
married.  That  is  why  I  came  to-night,  Marcia.  I  came  to 
ask  you  to  marry  me.  To  plead  with  you.  For  the  first 
time  I  was  prepared  to  sacrifice  you  for  my  own  desire — 
altogether.  And  now,  when  I  am  acting  my  most  selfish  self, 
for  the  first  time  you  see  the  sacrificial  mood  that  I  was  in 
before!" 

She  placed  her  arms  about  him. 

"Strange  contradictory  dear.  .  .  .  You  shall  have  me,  dear 
est.  Wait  and  see  how  soon.  I  think  I  never  wanted  you 
quite  so  much." 

"Marcia!" 

"Don't  let  your  feelings  blind  you  to  reason,  Tom.  Our 
feelings.  You  don't  want  a  wife.  If  I  was  rich — or  you 
were — even  then,  would  you  want  a  wife?  You  want  me. 
I  you.  Without  alloy,  dear.  I'll  marry  King." 

She  smiled  brighti}^. 

"Do  you  know  why  I  put  it  off?  Because  I  thought  it 
might  mean  real  captivity.  It  must  have,  Tom — without  you, 
there,  to  rescue  me.  Oh,"  her  face  darkened,  "I  could  not 
stand  the  thought  of  him  without  the  antidote!"  She  was 
silent,  brooding.  Her  eyes  seemed  full  of  the  picture  of  her 
life  with  the  dull  rich  man.  It  stifled  her,  blinded. 

"I  could  not  have  stood  it,  Tom.  I  can  now!  Without 
you,  it  must  have  meant  prison.  Now,  it  means  release — - 
adventure.  Yes ! "  She  seemed  to  be  emphasizing  her  resolve 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  273 

— bringing  it  clear  before  her  eyes  to  see  it.  "You'll  see  that 
I  am  game.  I  am  almost  happy." 

She  sank  down  in  her  chair,  and  smiled  at  him;  tears  kept 
her  from  seeing  how  he  smiled  a  bit  wistfully  away. 

She  needed  to  be  silent.  If  for  no  other  reason,  for  the 
tears. 

She  wanted  to  ask  him  simply:  "Do  you  love  me,  Tom?  For 
Tom,  if  you  did  love  me.  .  .  ."  She  did  not  dare  her  question. 
She  did  not  dare,  even  in  her  silence,  to  conclude  it.  She  was 
afraid  of  his  answer.  Both  for  him  and  for  her  she  was 
afraid.  Both  of  his  "yes"  and  his  "no."  After  all,  her  mind 
faded  and  veered,  she  had  better  marry  King.  It  would  be 
going  on. 

She  was  dry-eyed. 

Tom  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"What  do  I  really  mean  by  all  these  things  I  do?"  When 
Tom  was  alone  his  question  came  often,  came  without  answer. 
When  he  was  with  David,  it  hurt  and  these  things  he  did  were 
like  ash  in  his  mouth.  But  even  the  hurt  was  better  than 
the  reverberating  silence.  So  Tom  fled  solitude. 

But  what  of  David?  What  did  he  want  of  David?  Was 
he  glad  of  him  or  bitterly,  passionately  sorry?  Did  he  want 
him  close  or  far  away?  His  acts  and  moods,  were  they  de 
signed  to  hold  or  to  repel  him? 

Tom  was  at  a  pass  where  all  these  things  were  chaos.  The 
clear  facts  of  living  were  straws  in  a  heaving  sea:  straws  he 
reached  for.  He  went  brightly  about  his  profession.  It 
prospered.  But  it  became  more  and  more  a  thing  to  hide 
from  David.  And  all  such  things  were  more  and  more  to 
be  hidden  from  himself.  Marcia  was  engaged.  He  feared 
her  marriage  which  he  had  manoeuvered,  vaguely,  as  the  time 
of  a  demand  he  could  not  face.  Also  he  looked  forward  to 


274  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

r 

her  marriage:  the  senses  of  him:  his  blood  and  his  wits  as 
well.  Marcia's  marriage  must  be  a  function  of  both. 

He  tried,  close  to  David,  to  blot  out  his  conflicts.  He  tried 
to  realize  that  it  was  David  himself  who  brought  about  the 
conflicts:  and  to  pursue  the  rational  conclusion  that  it  was 
David  who  must  be  blotted  out.  His  reasonings  had  the  way 
of  playing  him  into  some  dark  .dilemma.  The  forces  driving 
him  toward  the  constant  agitation  of  his  wits  seemed  all  too 
clearly  irrational  and  heart-sent.  He  could  not  isolate  the 
verbs  of  his  reason.  If  he  did,  he  found  them  without  sub 
ject,  object — dead  waifs  of  sound  flecking  a  hollow  mind. 
His  reaching  for  the  true  drive  within  him  left  him  a  streak 
in  imponderable  Space,  as  if  he  had  grasped  a  Comet.  It 
was  better  to  be  confined  to  straws. 

The  schemings  pertinent  to  Marcia,  straws:  the  intricate 
work  downtown,  straws  also:  the  being  with  friends,  the 
satisfaction  of  his  senses,  straws  again.  The  effect  upon  his 
mind — this  passionate  bestowal  upon  work  he  could  not  re 
spect,  upon  pleasure  he  could  not  enjoy — was  a  slow  desicca 
tion.  He  was  dry,  cynical,  erethic.  He  needed  to  rouse  him 
self  to  heights  of  activation:  his  work  called  for  no  less.  And 
the  impulse  rousing  him  was  ever  one  he  was  cold  to.  A 
strain  on  his  nerves.  As  in  a  man  making  himself  drunk 
with  drink  he  forces  himself  to  swallow. 

Needfully,  since  this  vast  disharmony  gained  on  his  life 
and  since  each  part  of  it  warred  against  the  others,  Tom 
came  to  bestow  upon  its  various  factors  the  quality  of  respite 
and  escape.  He  needed  a  makeshift  harmony  in  order  to 
live.  One  instant  of  admitted  anarchy  in  our  minds  means 
madness:  in  our  bodies  death.  Since  discord  was  there,  it 
must  be  balanced  with  other  discord.  One  group  of  his 
thoughts  swelled,  sagged  out  of  place:  he  propped  it  into  a 
semblance  of  poise  with  another  hypertrophy.  So  discord 
propagates  itself.  Life  went  on. 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  275 

David  was  there  to  cleanse  him  of  the  tastes  of  his  worldly 
work,  restore  his  self-respect,  give  him  a  vantage  point  against 
the  scheming  Tom  of  the  day.  His  other  friends — shallow, 
quick  fellows  ready  to  give  what  he  asked  and  forward-com 
ing,  helpless  women  like  Laura  Dunield — were  there  to  bal 
ance  the  reticence  of  David,  ease  his  diseased  hunger,  throw 
him  momentarily  free  of  the  strange  dissatisfaction  of  his 
one  satisfying  friendship.  The  function  of  work  was  to 
sustain  him,  flush  his  energies  until  such  time  as  he  knew 
how  he  wanted  to  play.  Marcia  was  compensation  for  that 
in  him  which  could  not  look  to  David.  David  was  com 
pensation  for  that  in  him  which  was  ashamed  of  Marcia.  His 
hours  with  David  and  Cornelia  were  sleep  in  which  he  lived 
as  he  dreamed,  won  strength  to  face  the  waking:  his  hours  of 
work  were  respite  from  the  starved  clamor  of  his  dreams — 
a  way  of  winning  time  from  their  insistence. 

So  his  life  stumbled  and  shook  ahead.  It  held  together. 
But  it  was  textured  of  half-true,  half-meeting  elements.  Its 
hazardous  solution  caused  a  continual  ferment.  The  sign  of 
ferment  was  his  growing  pain  in  a  life  stumbling,  shaking 
ahead. 

He  walked  down  a  Square  with  that  lithe  pacing  stride 
of  his.  Half  clenched  fists  swung  at  his  side.  There  was  a 
fairly  constant  strain  in  his  eyes  that  lifted  them  in  their 
sockets.  With  teeth  tight  set,  he  hummed  a  tune.  Energy 
was  forever  thus  escaping  from  him.  When  he  did  nothing, 
he  fell  at  once  into  a  state  of  preparedness  for  flight.  He 
wanted  to  get  away:  get  out.  He  could  not.  Life  gripped 
him  and  he  loved  it.  But  much  energy  was  born  of  this  deep 
impulse  to  escape.  He  scattered  it  about.  Much  he  applied 
— and  applied  to  perfect  the  conditions  of  that  very  life  from 
which  his  nerves  rebelled.  His  vitality  in  talk,  his  speed  of 
impressions,  his  plasticity  of  posture  in  the  world  grew  from 
this  energy.  So  that  he  shook  along  in  a  vicious  circle.  Much 


276  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

of  his  power  to  throw  life  into  his  work  came  from  the  secre 
tions  of  his  dissatisfaction  with  it:  from  the  energy  of  his 
dissatisfaction.  But  life  is  full  of  such  mechanical  paradox. 
All  of  civilized  life  is  such  a  one.  Many  a  man  succeeds  in 
the  conscious  world  because  of  the  failure  hidden  ia  his  heart. 

Tom  stopped.  He  was  before  a  crumbling  brownstone 
house:  a  rusting  iron  grille,  a  gate  thrown  out  on  useless 
hinges.  A  tiny  plot  of  grass  flanked  the  narrow  walk.  The 
soil  was  rocky:  sediment  of  the  City — cans,  flakes  of  cloth, 
splint  eyes  of  glass — choked  the  slim  green.  From  the  low 
stoop  the  house  flared  up,  soft  in  decay. 

Tom  turned  his  back  on  the  house.  He  looked  North  on 
the  Square.  In  his  eyes  was  a  hunger  for  open  places.  His 
glance  consumed  the  narrow  breadth  of  the  Park  with  its 
dapper  walks  and  its  trees.  It  broke  impatient  on  the  row 
of  red-brick  houses.  It  spent  itself.  Tom's  gaze  narrowed. 
He  turned  and  went  up  the  stairs.  They  were  dirty  and 
dark — four  flights.  Odor  of  mildew  and  misspent  lives  seeped 
from  brown  plaster. 

He  struck  his  fist  on  the  door.  Behind  him  was  a  hall 
painted  the  color  of  stale  chocolate.  In  the  center  of  the 
fly-blown  ceiling  a  sudden  cupola,  picked  out  in  glass — • 
green,  yellow,  blue.  Sky  came  through  dim  and  soiled. 

A  young  stout  fellow  opened  the  door  and  gave  a  cry  of- 
pleasure:  let  Tom  in. 

"Hello,  Rennard!  Flora.  Florissima!  Company's  com 
plete." 

Tom  pressed  Lars  Durthal's  hand.  "Hello,  Lars,"  he  passed 
him. 

A  long  narrow  table  spread  in  the  square  small  room.  The 
heavy  mantel  was  ribald  with  knick-knacks  of  varicolored 
glass,  purchased  in  useless  shapes  at  Coney  Island  and  Asbury 
Park.  Their  gayety,  adance  in  the  boxed  mirrors  of  the  yel 
low  wood,  seemed  irrelevant  above  the  table,  with  its  high 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  277 

unlabelled  bottles  of  red  wine,  its  mounds  of  Italian  bread, 
its  platters  of  cervelat,  tomatoes,  sardelles.  The  table's  order 
was  disturbed  by  its  broken  wreath  of  guests. 

Most  of  the  diners  lounged  already  in  their  chairs.  Between 
laughter  and  smoke  they  sent  their  eyes  lazily  toward  the 
kitchen.  They  had  begun  with  their  wine. 

"Hello,  Mr.  Rennard,"  a  slender  fellow  spoke,  upon  whose 
long  neck  poised  a  head  remarkably  round  and  small;  within 
his  face  with  its  fat  sanguine  cheeks  the  eyes  and  mouth  and 
nose  took  up  an  inconspicuous  space. 

"Good  evening,  Marquese."  Lagora  was  a  nobleman:  a 
dealer  in  marble  according  to  his  one  report,  in  Italian  oils 
and  spices  according  to  his  other.  A  clever,  shifty,  cloudy 
fellow  with  hands  like  a  girl's. 

Tom  sat  down  with  an  air  of  temporariness  beside  him. 

"Well,  Dounia — comment  ga  va?"  He  leaned  and  placed  a 
finger  on  the  cheek  of  the  woman  across  the  table.  Dounia 
Smith  put  down  her  glass.  "I've  no  cigarettes." 

Tom  placed  a  box  in  her  expectant  hand.  They  were 
enormous  hands:  gaunt,  naked,  acquisitive,  with  a  wrinkle 
about  the  finger-joints  that  was  sinister  against  the  smooth 
calm  of  her  wrists.  Behind  her  hands,  Dounia  Smith  rose 
diminished.  She  was  tall,  handsomely  cut:  her  hair  swept 
black  and  low  over  her  temples:  her  eyes  had  a  gray  slant 
that  offset  the  thin  lips,  the  sharp  tilt  of  her  chin.  When  she 
lighted  her  cigarette  she  showed  all  of  her  teeth.  They  were 
white.  But  as  the  gaunt  huge  hand  came  near  her  face,  the 
rest  of  Dounia  Smith  went  into  eclipse. 

A  man  came  up,  neatly  and  drably  dressed,  with  a  red  tie 
that  flared  against  the  pale  primness  of  his  face. 

"Glad  you're  here,  Rennard.  Business  particularly  boring, 
to-day.  Fun  particularly  needed,  to-night." 

This  was  Christian  Hill — sedate,  rebellious — a  man  of 
business  who  craved  intoxicants  of  life.  All  his  sentences 


278  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

sounded  like  telegrams.  All  his  money,  too  sanely  earned  in 
a  broker's  office,  was  at  the  disposal  of  his  search  for  madness. 
He  looked  on  Tom  as  his  ideal.  He  would  have  sold  his 
wife  into  slavery  for  a  lust  sufficiently  great  to  make  him 
commit  the  folly. 

"I  want  to  introduce  you,"  he  beckoned  toward  a  girl  that 
had  sat  yonder  beside  him.  "Madeline — this  is  Mr.  Rennard 
—Miss  Gross." 

She  came  sidling.  She  was  richly  clad,  very  blond,  very 
powdered.  Beneath  the  simper  of  blue  eyes,  the  hot  curl  of 
placid  lips  and  the  ringlets  of  blond  hair  teasing  her  tiny 
ear,  Tom  saw  that  she  was  Jewish. 

He  took  her  tiny  hand,  gloved  in  fawn-colored  kid. 

"It  is  nice  to  have  you  here,  Miss  Gross.  I  hope  our 
rough  manners  won't  shock  you." 

She  propelled  herself  a  little  nearer. 

"Oh,  please  do,  Mr.  Rennard!" 

"You  want  to  be  shocked,  Miss  Gross?" 

Hill  intervened.  "But  you  can't,  Rennard.  You  don't 
know  my  little  Madeline." 

The  little  Madeline  simpered  and  tapped  her  escort's 
mouth  with  the  back  of  her  gloved  hand. 

"How  do  you  know,  Christian?  Just  because  you  couldn't." 
Bending  her  body  back,  she  threw  her  head  back  also.  She 
gazed  at  Tom  through  the  lashes  of  her  half-shut  eyes. 

Durthal  came  up. 

"Your  place  is  there,  old  man.    Between  Lunn  and  me." 

"Good  evening,  Flora.  Say,  you  have  room  for  Markand? 
I  made  him  promise  he'd  be  here." 

A  thick-set  woman,  with  face  incredibly  composed  and 
large  bare  arms  crossed  over  the  gray  width  of  her  dress, 
nodded  to  Tom  and  to  the  others. 

"Good  evening,  Flora."    "Hello,  Flora,"  the  greetings  came. 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  279 

Flora  did  not  budge  from  her  place  in  the  kitchen  door.  Hill 
dragged  Miss  Gross  through  the  scatter  of  chairs. 

"Oh,  Signora  Sanni,"  he  said,  "I  want  to  introduce  my 
friend." 

Flora  Sanni  wiped  her  right  hand  slowly,  methodically  on 
her  apron. 

"Buena  sera,  Signorina."  She  took  the  gloved  hand,  dropped 
it,  turned  about.  Her  eyes  were  steel.  She  had  taken  longer 
to  wipe  her  hands  on  her  apron. 

Tom  moved  in  Durthal's  power  toward  the  nearer  end  of 
the  table. 

A  young  girl  shut  the  door. 

"Here  you  are,"  muttered  Lagora. 

She  nodded  timidly  to  her  neighbors — maliciously  to 
Dounia  Smith,  a  defensive  malice — and  sat  down  beside  the 
Marquese.  He  drew  close  his  chair.  The  two  began  mutter 
ing  together.  Lagora  leaned  forward.  The  girl  bent  back 
from  the  thrust  of  his  mood  and  his  body.  She  was  a  frail 
creature — a  tissue  of  harried  nerves  with  great  black  teeming 
eyes.  Her  hand  tapped  on  the  plate.  She  lit  a  cigarette, 
inhaled  a  great  gust,  emptied  Lagora's  wine  glass  and  then 
blew  out  the  smoke.  Her  body  was  draped  in  a  short  tight 
smock  of  blue  hung  from  her  shoulders.  Her  tiny  breasts 
stood  up  in  it  quite  clear.  Lagora's  brows  worked  up  and 
down.  Her  big  eyes  sharpened  and  cut  him.  He  looked  at 
her  twitching  shoulders. 

"Hello,  Mr.  Rennard,"  she  cried  as  she  passed  him.  She 
threw  up  a  diminutive  hand.  Her  breasts  bobbed. 

"How  are  you,  Lettie?"  Tom,  taking  her  hand,  had  the 
sense  of  Lagora  smiling  with  snakish  eyes.  He  passed  on. 

A  lumbering  boy  got  up,  nodding  and  saying  no  word. 

"Well,  Darby?"  Tom  sat  down.  "I've  not  seen  you  in  a 
week." 


28o  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

"A  long  time,"  synchronously  growled  the  other.  Tom 
heard  him  and  laughed. 

"And  the  painting?" 

Tom  and  Darby  Limn  were  lost  together  in  talk.  From 
the  table's  farther  end  Durthal  saw  them  together.  The 
laugh  of  Dounia  Smith,  the  shrill  sneer  of  Lettie  tossing  her 
heels,  the  mutter  of  Lagora  were  a  wave,  gathering,  crumpling 
upon  the  calm  of  Signora  Sanni.  Durthal  extricated  himself 
from  Hill  and  Miss  Gross.  He  headed  through  the  disserried 
chairs.  Stretched  arms  reached  for  wine  and  tastes  of  anti- 
pasto.  The  evening  splintered  and  swirled.  Food  would 
draw  it  together. 

Durthal  stood  over  Tom. 

"Here,  old  man.  Change  over.  You  sit  between  us." 
Finding  his  seat,  he  also  had  the  sense  of  haven  beneath  the 
spray  and  scatter  of  the  room. 

Of  the  three,  Tom  was  the  only  one  whose  voice  carried 
beyond  them:  laughing.  Dounia  Smith  eyed  him  with  a  tilt 
of  her  head.  A  finger,  like  a  talon,  flecked  iier  cigarette.  Her 
brows  were  thin  and  straight  like  the  stroke  of  a  sharp  pencil 
on  hard  paper. 

Flora  Sanni  stood  above  the  table,  with  a  vast  white  bowl  of 
minestrone.  The  crowd  coalesced. 

The  table  narrowed.  The  chandelier,  relic  of  fluted  brass 
and  drooping  crystal,  took  on  the  tawdry  tone  of  office  and 
gave  its  light,  self-consciously,  heatedly,  like  an  old  servant, 
too  laden  with  memory  and  years  to  want  to  work  for  so 
crass  a  gathering.  The  carved  clock  ticked :  a  clatter  of  plates 
drew  down  bent  necks,  beading  foreheads.  Sharp  streakingg 
of  sound  ribboned  the  table:  swathed  it:  covered  it  with  a 
warm  liquidity.  Then  the  whipped  undertone  of  selves  seeped 
up  again,  lapped  over  the  inorganic  sound,  deluged  it,  drowned 
it  in  angular  surge  of  assertions. 

The  door  gave  a  knock  that  was  heard  at  last.  -.  »  -. 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  281 

David  had  followed  upstairs  a  pair  who  were  held  to  slow 
ness  by  the  constant  claim  of  the  woman  that  she  was  too 
weary  to  go  another  step. 

"Come  along,  Phoebe!"  The  man  had  a  high  straight  back. 
He  wore  a  soft  collar  that  bared  his  neck.  David  observed 
that  it  was  wiry  and  clean.  The  hairs  were  clipped  high  from 
it.  David  had  time  to  observe.  Whenever  the  pair  came  to 
a  rest,  he  rested  behind  them.  Something  impeded  his  pass 
ing.  Timidity  in  part.  The  disclosing  thereby  that  he  had 
overheard  them,  that  they  were  moving  too  slowly.  His  own 
scarce  unconscious  resistance  to  mounting  those  stairs  at  all. 
He  hated  the  place.  But  he  had  no  reason  to  give  to  Tom. 
And  Tom  took  offense  at  his  not  wishing  to  come. 

"Why,  dear  man.  Don't  you  like  Flora?  I  think  Flora  is 
splendid.  Such  poise!  Or  is  the  place  too  noisy  for  you, 
David?  Davie,  you  must  get  accustomed  to  dirt!" 

A  vehemence  in  Tom  that  silenced  David.  Doubtless  this 
was  life,  and  life  no  thing  to  shrink  from. 

"But  I  do  like  Flora!"  He  could  not  add  that  he  felt  that 
Flora  did  not  like  him:  did  not  seem  to  like  any  one  who 
came  there:  nor  the  feeling  that  if  she  had  known  him  different 
and  uncomfortable,  perhaps  she  would  have  liked  him. 

"Well,  then! "said  Tom. 

The  stout  lady  was  sighing.  "Why  we  ever  come  here, 
Jack!  These  stairs!" 

"You  know  it  is  lots  of  fun,  Phoebe.  Go  along  now.  You 
like  it  as  well  as  I."  He  spoke  immaculate  English,  and  urged 
her  with  a  slap  on  her  rump. 

"Well,  the  people " 

" the  food?"  he  chuckled.  "The  mysterious  bottom  of 

Signora  Sanni's  pot.  One  more  hoist,  old  lady.  Th — th — ere! 
Where  else,  pray,  can  one  meet  such  a  delightful  assortment 
of  bulls?" 

"Don't  call  them  bulls,  Jack  Korn!     Call  them  detectives." 


282  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

"Here  we  are,  dear." 

David  and  they  entered  together. 

"Korn,  I  am  glad  to  see  you!"  Tom  reached  over  the  table 
and  greeted  him.  "How's  business?"  He  had  nodded  to 
David  and  Korn's  woman  with  a  perfunctory  politeness. 

"Meet  my  dear  friend,  Mr.  Korn,"  he  laughed.  "Same 
profession  as  myself."  The  three  sat  opposite  Durthal  and 
Tom  and  Lunn.  Mrs.  Phoebe  Raymond  was  on  one  side  of 
David.  On  the  other  sat  Dounia  Smith.  All  of  them  laughed, 
except  David. 

<  He  looked  at  Korn.  A  big,  athletic  fellow,  clad  in  somber 
serge.  He  had  black  hair  and  a  significant  nose.  .  .  .  Why 
had  all  of  them  laughed? 

"I  have  never  seen  you  here  before,  Mr.  Markand,"  said 
Phoebe  Raymond. 

"I — I  come  quite  often." 

"Well,  I  don't,"  she  looked  full  at  him.  "One  gets  so  little 
time."  Her  round  face  was  pretty.  But  it  was  fat:  its  petite 
features  were  lost  in  flesh.  Her  bosom  obtruded  like  a  robin's 
breast.  David  seemed  to  see,  investing  the  round  comeliness 
of  her  mouth  and  nose,  layers  of  sloth  and  greed.  A  scaly 
dimness  was  already  over  the  blue  eyes.  "I  like  small  gather 
ings  more,  don't  you?"  she  confided.  "One  could  get  to 
know  a  person  then."  David  had  the  sense  that  if  he  drank 
enough  of  the  wine  Mrs.  Raymond  would  seem  very  pretty 
indeed. 

He  began  to  eat.  Words  pattered  and  burst  about  him. 
The  food  had  an  exotic  charm.  The  air  was  full  of  heated 
eyes  and  bodies.  Glances  and  edged  remarks  trembled  like 
flung  spears  in  the  flesh  of  the  women.  David  kept  still  and 
went  on  eating. 

Phoebe  Raymond  tried  to  engage  him  in  talk. 

"My  husband  and  I  were  in  Maine  at  the  time.  Do  you 
know  New  England,  Mr.  Markand?" 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  283 

"Of  course  he  knows  it!  Can't  you  see  it  written  all  over 
him,  Phoebe?"  It  was  Tom  drawing  her  away.  "How  dare 
you  talk  to  my  friend  about  your  husband!  Have  you  no 
sense  of  decency?" 

The  immediate  half  of  the  table  was  his.  He  played  it 
like  an  instrument.  His  eyes  were  too  bright  and  too  hard, 
thought  David.  He  had  little  to  say  to  him.  To  Durthal 
and  to  Lunn,  to  the  women  on  David's  side,  to  Hill  even  and 
Lagora,  he  had  more  to  say  than  to  David.  Most  of  all  to 
Korn.  But  he  looked  often  at  his  friend — sharp  glances 
while  his  attention  swathed  from  right  to  left.  David  was* 
enmeshed  in  his  running  comment:  all  Tom  said  seemed  to  run 
through  him  and  knit  him. 

"It  is  hard  not  to  be  moral,"  he  said.  "One  is  pushed  so 
into  good  behavior." 

Jack  Korn  sat  back  smiling.  He  was  a  strong  man.  He 
was  very  quiet. 

"What  do  you  think  of  good  behavior,  Korn?"  Tom  asked 
him. 

"It  is  as  good  a  game  as  another."    He  paused.    "Surer." 

"But  why  should  we  want  to  be  sure?  Since  we  are  already 
sure  of  death?  Look  at  Dounia,  there.  She  has  never  done  a 
risky  thing  in  her  life.  Run  over  her  investments.  Burton, 
Klein,  La  Soule — all  good  gold  bonds.  You  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  yourself,  my  dear.  You  remind  me  of  Markand's 
uptown  relations." 

"And  what  are  you  crowing  about?"  Dounia  retorted. 
"You're  as  safe  as  an  eel." 

"I  have  at  least  the  good  manners  to  be  ashamed  of  it," 
Tom  laughed.  "To  hide  it  and  even  lie  about  it.  I  am  gain 
ing  strength." 

He  looked  admiringly  at  Korn.  "Here,  old  man,  I  drink  to 
the  logic — to  the  beauty  of  your  life!"  He  held  forth  his 
wine  glass. 


284  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

Korn  raised  his  to  his  eyes,  nodded  and  sipped.  Tom 
drained. 

"Did  you  get  that,  Davie?"  he  said.  "The  contempt  Korn 
showed  in  answering  my  toast?  I  do  not  blame  him.  I've 
never  earned  his  respect.  Think  how  he  must  despise  you!" 

Korn  did  not  turn  his  head.  Lunn  grunted  and  smirked — in 
his  plate.  Dounia  and  Phoebe  came  to  David's  rescue. 

From  Dounia:  "I  am  sure  Mr.  Markand  is  br-raver,  much 
b-raver  than  you!" 

From  Phoebe:  "Jack,  deny  that  you  despise  Mr.  Mark 
and." 

Tom  drove  ahead.  "But  I'll  earn  your  respect  yet,  Jack 
Korn.  I  may  be  earning  it  now.  ..." 

Christian  Rill  was  nudging  Miss  Gross. 

"He's  a  wonder,  is  Rennard.  You  must  get  him.  The 
other  man,  the  one  in  the  black  suit,  Madeline,  he — he 
is "  Hill  whispered  in  the  young  girl's  ear.  Her  fork  clat 
tered:  her  little  eyes  lost  their  dim  cunning:  became  bright 
and  large. 

"Really?"  she  gasped.  She  gazed  at  Korn  and  was  speech 
less.  Her  hand  went  to  the  old  bead  bag  in  her  lap. 

Talk  like  a  comet  drew  to  the  head  of  Tom  and  Korn. 
They  held  it:  they  swung  it:  it  was  a  dazzle  of  gyre  to  the 
jerk  of  their  directions.  At  the  farther  end  of  the  table, 
Signora  Sanni  came  and  went:  sat  imperturbable.  She  was  a 
woman  of  more  than  forty.  Disillusion  was  sweet  in  her 
firm,  strong  face.  It  was  a  preservative.  It  did  not  keep 
her  pretty,  it  kept  her  content.  Her  features  had  set.  It 
was  as  if  they  had  thrown  away  their  woman's  tricks  of 
blandishment  and  surprise:  as  if  they  had  sold  their  power 
to  impassion  at  the  price  of  passion  itself.  At  her  side  were 
Lagora  and  Lettie  Dew.  These  three  alone  were  intact  from 
the  ebullient  pull  of  the  other  end  of  the  table.  Lagora  was 
incapable  of  an  objective  interest.  He  ate  seriously,  he  spoke 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  285 

to  Signora  Sanni,  he  nagged  Lettie.  The  eyes  of  Miss  Dew 
wandered  from  their  circuit  between  her  plate  and  the  ceiling, 
to  David.  For  a  moment,  their  gaze  softened;  something 
swarn  in  her  eyes,  something  stirred  like  a  cloud's  rift  in  her 
mind.  With  a  violent  gust  of  smoke — for  she  smoked  in 
cessantly — she  blew  it  away. 

"But  I  maintain,"  Tom  said,  "that  the  law  makes  the  game 
all  the  more  delicious.  The  more  rules,  the  more  brains  to 
overturn  them." 

Korn  smiled  and  nodded:  "Goethe  put  it — 'In  der  Be- 
schraenkung  zeigt  sich  erst  der  Meister.' " 

"What  does  that  mean?"  Tom  was  held  up. 

"Just  about  what  you  are  saying,"  replied  Kom. 

"Well,  then,  Goethe  is  right."  Every  one  laughed  except 
David. 

Tom  raced:  "I  like  obstacle  races:  I  like  hurdles.  Society 
is  made  up  simply  of  men  who  run  flat,  like  you,  dear  Korn, 
or  go  in  for  steeple-chasing,  like  myself.  Now,  I  have  a 
friend — tell  me,  Korn,  what  do  you  think  of  this  for  manipu 
lation  .  .  .  ?" 

It  was  amazing,  thought  David,  how  little  Korn  said  for 
one  who  held  such  sure  attention. 

" with  the  girl  married,  he  controls  her  life.  Do  you 

see?  Of  course  he  must  pay  his  minimum — let  us  say  his 
taxes — for  that.  But  say  what  you  want,  love  or  no  love, 
there's  always  about  the  same  ratio  of  satisfaction  in  a  love 
affair.  Eh,  Dounia?"  he  baited  her.  "Come,  Dounia,  tell  us 
for  once.  Down  with  the  veils.  Is  there  so  much  difference 
whether  you  love  the  man  or  not?  I  am  convinced  that  wo 
man's  pleasure  is  utterly  subjective.  Who  gives  it  to  her  is 
of  no  consequence — unless  she  lets  herself  be  imposed  on  by 
Society's  mandates,  standards,  sentimentalities.  Won't  you 
enlighten  us,  Dounia?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  defensive  sharpness.     How  did 


286  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

he  guess  how  women  felt?  how  utterly  subjective  passion  was 
— at  least  in  her?  Phoebe  also  stirred  back  in  her  chair. 
His  arrows  were  scattering  too  near.  How  could  he  tell — he 
was  peering  mischievously  at  her — that  she  strove  often  to 
forget  her  man  in  order  to  be  happy  with  him? 

"You  see,  she  won't  tell.  These  women  who  think  that 
being  dumb  is  being  secret.  As  I  was  saying,  he  controls  the 
lady.  And  she  controls  her  husband.  And  since  he  is  high  in 
power  in  the  world  downtown,  my  friend  controls  that  also. 
No  prettier,  no  more  outlawed  game  could  be  imagined.  I 
maintain  it  is  pretty  enough,  Korn,  for  your  praise." 

Korn  chuckled.    Tom  raced  on. 

David  had  the  sense  that  in  a  circling  way  he  was  the  goal 
of  Tom.  Tom  threw  out  flaring  lines,  struck  here,  flung  there, 
with  himself  as  center  of  his  operations. 

He  lost  this  sense.  It  was  replaced  by  the  poignant  one 
that  Tom  ignored  him.  If  anything  remained  of  the  earlier 
impression,  merely  that  the  avoidance  was  planned.  Tom 
paid  more  heed  to  every  one  in  the  room!  His  attention  was 
flattering  and  was  canny.  He  baited  Dounia,  but  Dounia 
could  not  bait  him.  Durthal  and  Lunn  were  subsidiary 
strings  that  reenforced  his  theme:  and  the  women.  He  wove 
his  complex  music  with  the  lives  and  thoughts  of  all  those 
present.  And  when  he  noticed  David,  it  was  to  prod  him — to 
hurt  him. 

Then,  still  another  sense.  David  began  to  feel  himself 
separate  from  this  noisy  element  he  was  immersed  in.  He 
put  forth  spiritual  fingers  to  explore  it.  He  drew  his  shredded 
findings  in ;  he  began  to  explore  himself. 

He  felt  a  hazardous  balance,  swung  safe  from  fall  by  an 
impalpable  thread,  between  himself  and  this  room:  himself 
and  Tom.  Even  the  gaslights,  naked  and  stiff  and  hot,  were 
elements  of  Tom.  He  was  on  the  other  side  and  was  alone. 
But  there  was  a  joy  in  the  experience  of  separation.  He  was 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  287 

apart,  impregnable.  He  could  poise  somewhat  the  laughter, 
the  surge,  the  flection  about  him;  arrive  at  himself.  .  .  . 
Was  he  impregnable  after  all?  Why,  then,  hurt? 

.  .  .  Wine  soaked  soft  these  men  and  women — these  prisons 
of  sense.  Sense  swirled  unhindered  upward,  danced  with 
spiraling  cohesion  beneath  the  gasjets.  .  .  . 

The  door  pushed  open  again.  A  man,  dull  shouldered,  with 
heavy  head  and  tread  and  unlit  eyes,  came  in  and  nodded  and 
sat  down  at  the  end  of  the  table  beside  Korn.  With  the  door 
wide  for  a  moment  a  strange  world  stood  in  the  hall  beside 
the  room:  a  world,  cool  and  hidden. 

He  was  also  an  accustomed  guest.  He  came  with  heavy 
breath  as  if  each  breath  lifted  a  weight  of  flesh  against  some 
obstruction  in  his  gullet.  He  nodded  dully,  with  a  brighter 
gaze  alone  for  Tom. 

"Too  bad  you  weren't  here  earlier,"  said  Tom.  "The  law 
needed  your  defense." 

"So?"  he  was  dully  aware.  His  eyes  peered  out,  like  a 
big  dog's,  disturbed  at  feed. 

"I  think  Officer  Murphy  might  do  well  to  ar-r-rest  you  all," 
said  Dounia. 

"Oh,  you  wouldn't  have  him  do  that,"  cried  Hill,  with  a 
slightly  trembling  voice.  "It  is  such  fun  breaking  all  the 
Commandments." 

"So  long  as  glasses  are  not  broken,"  said  Tom. 

"How  is  work,  Murphy,"  asked  Korn  with  a  serious  full 
face  whose  irony  was  far  beyond  the  detective's  wit. 

"Oh,  slow  .  .  .  glp.  Ain't  much  .  .  .  glp  .  .  .  doin'." 
Murphy  looked  up  and  down  the  table,  interested  at  last, 
lacking  something.  "Say,  Flora,"  his  gross  voice  thrust  out. 
"A  little  of  the  red?" 

The  gathering  paused  momently  about  the  intrusion:  swirled 
about  it.  He  was  a  gap  in  its  midst,  a  load  on  its  vital  spirit. 
His  fleshly  dullness  must  be  smeared  over  with  raillery  and 


288  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

laughter.  The  crowd  began  to  digest  him.  Murphy  dis 
appeared. 

His  heft,  now  dissolved,  was  an  added  strength  in  the 
room's  swelter. 

Tom  rode  the  wave  of  broken  personalities  and  whipped 
it  and  steered  it.  Lagora  forgot  his  duties  toward  Lettie  and 
tried  to  make  love  to  Flora.  He  flattered  her.  He  owed  her 
money.  He  thought  it  might  be  well  not  to  have  to  pay  for 
his  dinners.  Signora  Sanni  flicked  off  his  words  like  flies.  She 
was  learning  the  unlikelihood  of  being  paid.  And  Lettie 
Dew,  released,  allowed  herself  to  gaze  full  and  long  at  David 
who  was  back  in  the  storm  taking  its  breast,  distinguishing 
no  thing.  Phoebe  was  moist  and  breathing  hard.  She  was 
safe,  however,  beside  Korn.  Her  sense  of  safety  crowned 
with  smugness  her  bibulous  affection. 

"I  believe  truly,"  she  said  to  David,  "we  should  be  going." 
She  had  said  this  over  and  over.  It  gave  her  the  excuse  she 
somehow  wanted  for  finishing  each  succeeding  glass  of  wine. 
She  spoke  measuredly.  She  was  passionately  anxious  to  have 
David  know  she  was  more  the  lady  than  Dounia  Smith  or 
Flora. 

Lettie  leaned  over  and  smiled  at  David.  Very  suddenly. 
David  smiled  back.  Lettie  scowled.  David  was  hurt.  As 
soon  as  he  looked  away,  her  eyes  were  once  more  on  him. 

Miss  Gross,  cool,  unliquored,  chuckled  and  took  the  vary 
ing  scene;  she  wondered  why  Mr.  Rennard  evaded  her  diag 
nosis.  She  knew  that  later,  Hill  would  try  to  kiss  her.  He 
would  take  her  home  in  a  cab  for  no  other  purpose.  She  was 
debating  whether  she  wanted  to  be  kissed  by  him,  or  no.  It 
might  be  fun.  He  was  a  married  man!  There  he  was  pendu 
lous,  at  her  side.  He  looked  down  more  daring  at  her  light- 
lashed  corsage.  How  far  dared  he  be  mad — was  Madeline 

worth  madness?  The  price :  He  was  dismayed  to  find 

himself  sobering  under  his  question:  deciding  against  it. 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  289 

"Damn  it!"  He  jumped  to  his  feet  and  brandished  his 

glass.  "Let's  be — let's  be "  his  voice  died  down:  " 

free  souls,  to-night." 

He  found  his  seat  limply.  It  was  his  tragedy  to  be  sane. 
This  Madeline  Gross — pretty  though  she  was — was  not  yet 
the  creature  for  whom  he  expectantly  and  religiously  waited: 
not  yet  the  love  for  whom  he  was  to  abandon  his  wife  and 
child,  with  whom  he  was  to  be  lost  in  the  sacrament  of  irre 
parable  Folly.  Not  yet.  Perhaps  never!  He  was  sober.  He 
put  a  bottle  to  his  lips  and  emptied  it.  It  gave  him  a  stomach 
ache.  He  began  to  recall  that  Madeline  lived  far  uptown, 
and  that  a  cab  would  cost  a  considerable  lot  of  money. 

The  night  was  mellow  and  soft.  It  grew  smeared  with  the 
sweat  of  wear:  hard  with  broken  clusters  of  decay.  It  was 
over.  .  .  . 

Tom  and  David  walked  homeward  in  silence. 

David  knew  one  thing,  and  it  hurt:  Tom  had  been  showing 
off  to  the  man  called  Korn.  He  had  one  question.  At  last 
he  asked  it: 

"Who  is  Mr.  Korn?" 

Something  quailed  in  Tom.  He  took  his  answer,  flung  it 
brutally  against  his  quailing. 

"Korn?"  He  was  looking  ahead,  far  ahead.  "Korn — why, 
Korn  is  a  pickpocket." 

There  were  no  more  words.  They  went  down  the  hall  of 
their  home:  each  entered  his  room. 

Tom  closed  the  door.  ...  It  was  very  white  and  very 
quiet  and  clean.  He  sat  on  his  bed.  Resting  his  chin  in  his 
hands,  he  went  on  looking  ahead,  looking  far  ahead.  Seeing 
nothing.  The  alarm-clock  was  obtrusive  with  its  tick-tack- 
tick.  The  window  was  open  from  the  top.  A  faint  breeze 
made  the  white  mesh  curtains  stir.  Torn  felt  a  soiled  self 


2go  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

sitting  on  the  bed,  felt  soiled  feet  on  the  tidied  floor.  Tom 
felt  a  desecration. 

He  was  up.  He  was  almost  like  a  somnambulist.  He  was 
in  David's  room.  They  were  looking  at  each  other. 

"I  have  done  nothing.  You  fool,  acting  as  if  you  were 
guilty!"  he  said  to  himself. 

"Yes,  Tom?"  David  did  not  understand  the  stillness. 

Tom  was  in  conflict.  "Are  you  sure — are  you  sure  you  are 
not  guilty?"  Words  cried  to  be  spoken.  He  had  none. 

"Don't  be  shocked,  Davie,"  he  spoke  at  last.  "One  must 
meet  all  sorts " 

"I  am  not  shocked.  But  it  is  strange.  He  seemed  so  in 
telligent  a  man." 

Tom  pounced,  with  passion  of  relief. 

"He  is  intelligent,  Davie!  That  is  life.  You  don't  know 
how  life  is  lived  in  New  York.  There  are  no  sharp  distinc 
tions,  Davie,  between  criminals  and  honest  men.  .  .  ."  He 
stopped.  That  sounded  wrong.  He  plunged  in,  to  make  it 

right.  " What  I  mean  is,  the  ways  allowed  by  the  law 

and  the  other  ways — there  are  conventions,  Davie.  Now 
adays,  to  get  along,  a  young  man  must  break  in,  must  break 
in  somehow.  Strictly  speaking,  that  is  never  quite  a  right 
eous "  He  stopped  again.  David  looked  with  gentle  eyes: 

was  Tom  pleading,  was  Tom  pleading  for  Korn  or  for  an 
other?  Tom's  rage  came  sudden,  a  birth  of  weakness.  .  .  . 

"Look  here,"  he  attacked  him,  "what  a  prig  you  sometimes 
seem,  man!  WThat  do  you  know  about  life?  You  who  have 
always  gone  a  greased  path,  sliding  into  fortune!  Do  you 
think  all  men  have  uncles  to  do  the  cheating  and  the  robbing 
for  them?" 

David's  fists  closed.  He  held  himself.  ...  By  God,  was 
Tom  right? 

Tom  felt  his  victory.  He  was  enraged  still  more.  He  struck 
again.  "If  we  all  had  the  fat  lap  of  your  aunt  to  coddle  us, 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  291 

or  the  pure  lips  of  your  cousin  to  teach  us  love  for  nothing! 
Perhaps  you  think  that  any  man  who  hasn't  some  one  else 
to  lay  the  dirt  for  him  had  better  stay  under?  A  lot  you  know 
about  life." 

"But  Tom " 

"Look  about  you.  I  don't  apologize  for  Korn.  He  is  what 
he  is.  He  is  the  typical  social  being.  Nakedly.  The  rest  of 
us  think  we  are  the  pretty  names  we  are  called  by." 

He  stopped.  David  was  silent.  A  great  fear  ran  through 
Tom. 

"When  you  learn,  David,  to  be  a  man,  to  give  a  little  under 
standing — you  may  deserve  the  friend  you  have." 

Still  David  looked  at  him,  looked  beyond  him,  searched  for 
a  reason.  Tom  went  out.  It  was  as  if  the  air  that  enveloped 
David  sucked  him  backward. 

Once  more  Tom  was  in  his  room.  Its  clear  white  calm 
was  unbearable  to  him.  He  would  be  less  harried  in  the  dark. 
He  shut  off  the  gas.  He  flung  himself  upon  his  bed.  He 
could  not  bear  the  darkness.  He  could  not  bear  the  light. 
Doubtless,  next  door,  David  was  quietly  taking  off  his  clothes. 
Slow,  slightly  puzzled — unbearable  David!  Oh,  he  could 
murder!  He  jumped  up.  Something  dim,  something  gray, 
something  dirty  and  simple  and  soft:  this  was  his  need.  He 
rushed  down  to  the  street.  .  .  . 

Reaction.  .  .  .  Tom  was  contrite.  He  watched  David 
sharply,  aloofly  even,  then  did  some  good  thing  for  him.  Some 
intimate  thing  none  but  a  loving  eye  could  have  devised:  and 
with  a  quiet  tact.  So  there  was  David  more  bewildered  than 
before.  But  not  David  alone.  He  understood  no  less  than 
Tom.  The  storm  of  their  relationship  seemed  moving  to 
ward  no  issue. 

David  was  sick — a  little  sick. 

"You  shan't  go  downtown,  to-day,  do  you  hear!"  com- 


292  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

manded  Tom.  "This  is  a  busy  day  for  me,  but  if  you  don'* 
give  me  your  word  you'll  stay  home,  I'll  stay  home  myself 
to  make  you." 

He  went  out  and  telephoned  to  David's  office.  He  came 
back  with  a  doctor.  Tonsillitis. 

Tom  nursed  him.  Mrs.  Lario  found  there  was  really  little 
she  could  do.  David  had  an  assortment  of  dainties  to  sip. 
"This  won't  hurt  your  throat."  He  had  books.  He  had  a 
splendid  array  of  cushions  architected  for  his  back  to  prop 
him  for  reading. 

Mrs.  Deane  came  and  found  her  nephew  lying  happy  in 
the  large  front  room. 

"More  sun,"  Tom  explained.  "It  was  no  job  moving  the 
bed." 

"It  is  wonderful,  child,  how  Mr.  Rennard  nurses  you.  I 
would  no  more  dream  of  interfering.  .  .  .  You  do  not  appear 
to  be  very  busy  downtown,  Mr.  Rennard." 

Tom  laughed.  "Oh,  no,  Mrs.  Deane.  Nothing  to  do  at 
all.  But  do  not  give  me  away." 

David  understood. 

"Supposing  work  does  go  to  hell?  It  won't.  But  supposing 
it  did?  Pooh!" 

David  could  not  forget  such  things. 

Nor,  in  their  light,  could  he  forget  Tom's  accusation  that 
he  was  selfish:  that  he  had  no  idea  of  service.  This  one  rift 
there  was  in  the  harmony  of  Tom's  helping:  a  certain  flavor 
of  rebuke  as  he  served,  a  certain  stress  and  reminder. 
"Here  is  how  /  serve  my  friend."  Yet  David  could  not  be 
sure.  The  rebuke  he  felt  in  Tom's  ministrations  for  his  own 
lazy  selfishness  might  altogether  lie  in  his  own  guilty  con 
science.  What  did  he  ever  do  for  Tom?  So  far  as  he  could 
see,  what  did  he  ever  do  for  any  one  at  all?  His  life  was  a 
sliding  down  greased  paths.  Fortune  or  no  fortune,  what  hold 
had  he  on  the  way?  Lying  there  on  his  cushioned  couch,  he 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  293 

found  himself  wishing  Tom  had  not  come  back  so  soon  from 
work  in  order  to  see  how  he  was.  And  wishing  this,  he  felt 
his  guilt  the  more.  .  .  . 

In  flashes,  like  blaze  in  an  empty  sky,  the  emptiness  of 
David  came  to  him  and  filled  him  and  gave  him  great  hurt. 
Whither  indeed  was  he  going,  and  where  was  he?  If  Tom 
was  querulous,  irritable,  weak,  if  Tom  scoffed  at  his  relatives, 
refused  to  be  serious  about  his  friends  and  would  hear  no 
word  of  his  loves,  what  was  David  to  complain?  His  rela 
tions  were  nothing  to  Tom:  he  knew  too  well  what  earthy 
ones  they  were.  Had  David  respect  for  his  own  brief  amours? 
Was  there  one  of  his  relationships  with  man  or  woman  that 
was  noble,  that  lifted  him  up?  Was  there  one,  who  worked 
for  him  and  served  him,  as  Tom  did?  Tom  was  faulty.  Yes. 
But  David  was  a  monster  in  that  he  seemed  to  partake  neither 
of  the  virtue  nor  of  the  sin  of  man.  He  was  a  trimmer.  He 
was  clamped  down  in  some  chill  Limbo.  Knowledge  came 
to  him,  even  now,  of  his  idle  and  empty  ways,  like  lightning 
in  a  lazy  summer  night:  flashing  and  gone,  muttering  afar, 
doing  no  work  upon  him. 

He  was  a  spiritually  sprawling  creature.  He  had  no 
coordination.  If  his  heart  was  touched,  how  did  his  mind 
respond?  If  his  mind,  where  was  the  response  in  deed?  It 
seemed  to  David  that  what  he  did  wore  away  the  energy  of 
his  mind,  dullened  his  heart:  and  what  he  felt  and  thought 
became  impediments  to  those  acts  which  his  living  called  for. 
He  was  a  loose-bound  bundle  of  life,  rolling  down  a  chute.  .  .  . 

In  the  fall,  Constance  Bardale  telephoned  to  him. 

"I  am  back.    When  can  you  come  to  see  me?" 

It  was  always  hard  for  David  to  meet  a  sudden  situation 
on  the  wire.  He  needed  a  face  and  a  warm  smile  to  talk  to. 
He  was  afraid  he  had  been  dull  in  greeting  Constance.  For 
so  long  a  time  he  had  not  thought  of  her  at  all! 

"Then,  I'll  expect  you  Saturday  to  tea." 


294  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

She  had  not  suggested  an  evening.  The  choice  of  the  formal 
hour  meant  nothing  to  David. 

"I  must  make  her  know — somehow  I  must  make  her  know 
I  can't  go  on." 

David  said  this  to  himself,  going  to  see  her.  He  did  not 
recall  that  he  had  failed  to  write  since  the  apparition  of  the 
little  girl  in  the  car.  The  poignancy  of  that  vision  was  faded. 
But  it  had  left  its  mark.  In  its  loveliness  it  had  blighted 
certain  ugly  things  in  his  heart:  disappeared.  The  condition 
whence  sprang  the  ugly  things  was  still  in  David.  He  was 
not  cured.  He  was  merely  bitterly  aware  that  he  was  not  well. 

Constance  Bardale  appeared  different.  Her  new  Paris 
gown  was  strange  and  stiff  and  he  did  not  like  it.  She  was 
far  away  within  it.  Even  her  voice  had  the  apartness  of 
alien  adventures. 

She  took  his  hand  swiftly  and  manoeuvered  him  into  a 
chair. 

"It  is  good  to  find  you  so  flourishing.  What  do  you  get  out 
of  New  York  air  to  make  you  flower  so!  I  thought  of  you 
particularly  in  a  little  Normandy  town  where  we  stopped 
with  friends.  A  Napoleonic  Baron — very  plebeian  that,  for 
France.  There  was  a  gardener — of  the  chateau — who  had  the 
one  true  aristocracy.  A  big  brusk  fellow.  How  he  adored  his 
flowers  and  his  vegetables!  He  reminded  me  of  the  way  you 
are  sometimes." 

David  thought  how  hard  it  was  going  to  be  to  break  the 
news  of  his  resolve  to  Constance.  It  dawned  on  him  now 
that  it  might  be  unnecessary.  Of  a  sudden,  "She  has  decided 
for  me!"  he  announced,  amazed,  to  himself. 

He  looked  at  her.     Once  more  she  meant  discovery.     For 

months,  now,  she  had  been  far  from  his  senses,  but  his  mind 

had  thought  her  close.     Now  his  mind  knew  her  far  away, 

and  his  senses  clamored. 

.     They  were  at   a  point   far  anterior   to   their  first  warm 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  295 

meeting.  No  hint  of  intimacy:  no  hint  that  it  had  ever 
been:  no  credible  sign  that  it  could  ever  be.  She  talked 
fluently,  her  words  and  gestures  took  on  for  David  the  nature 
of  a  sinuous  veil,  a  blank  blue  of  smiling  nugatories  behind 
which  the  woman  he  had  known  retreated. 

Apart  from  her  now  as  he  had  never  been,  he  wanted  the 
warmth  of  her  nearness.  His  resolution  to  break  off  was  a 
dim  thing.  He  could  not  understand  it.  He  sat  there  and 
had  forgotten  it.  This  helped  not  at  all.  Her  way  with  him 
was  beyond  the  mutability  of  a  resolve.  It  seemed  a  natural 
condition. 

It  was  as  if  she  had  looked  on  him  never  closer  before.  She 
was  a  lady  with  all  the  aloofness  of  her  sex:  not  one  to  let  him 
fling  off  her  clothes,  let  him  lie  beside  her.  The  hope  was 
monstrous  of  what  once,  without  hope,  had  been  fact.  It 
was  over.  .  .  . 

In  his  chagrin  he  could  not  find  the  comfort  even  of  sup 
posing  that  she  had  sensed  his  decision  and  simply  gone  be 
fore  him.  He  could  not  lave  his  hurt  in  the  thought  that  his 
long  silence,  with  her  in  Europe,  was  perhaps  an  introduction 
she  had  understood  to  her  own  course.  He  was  like  a  child: 
so  aware  of  his  own  grievance,  and  of  the  sanctity  of  his 
mood,  he  had  no  knowledge  of  hers.  Like  a  child  he  came 
away,  routed,  fascinated,  fingering  over  and  nursing  his  several 
hurts. 

But,  looking  back,  what  humiliated  David  most  was  not 
these  bruises  to  his  pride — was  rather  the  dispatch  with 
which  he  had  recovered  from  them.  Neither  the  revelation  of 
the  little  girl  had  held  him,  nor  the  shaming  lesson  at  the  hands 
of  Constance:  neither  inspiration  nor  defeat.  He  had  a  slow 
pervading  sense  of  his  unchastened  nature.  .  .  . 

He  dined  with  Caroline  Lord.  No  rare  occurrence;  but  this 
time  Constance  was  no  more,  and  for  the  first  time  Miss  Lord 
said: 


296  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

"Let's  try  to  amuse  ourselves  for  a  change.  What  do  you 
say?  Don't  you  think  it's  a  confession  of  no  resources  to  be 
always  going  to  the  theaters?  You  have  never  been  to  my 
apartment.  Come  and  see  me,  to-night." 

They  walked  up  a  residential  avenue  east  of  Central  Park, 
where  the  cars  swerved  swift  and  remote  between  sedate, 
slow  houses.  They  climbed  a  high  brownstone  stoop.  They 
passed  through  a  corridor  echoing  faintly  with  their  steps. 

She  lighted  a  table  lamp.  Color  spread  out  from  the 
emerald-silk  shade  above  a  tidy  stack  of  magazines,  showed 
the  room  close  and  impeccably  neat.  Each  chair  was  in  its 
place.  The  broad  couch  with  its  upstanding  cushions  was 
smoothed  of  wrinkles.  Gray  curtains  stood  discreetly  before 
tall  windows. 

It  was  a  cool  room,  methodically  pitched.  David  found 
himself  not  terrified  by  its  neatness.  Miss  Lord  seemed  to 
be  glad  when  he  sank  down  on  the  couch  and  rumpled  it. 
He  let*  his  head  lean  against  a  steel-engraving  on  the  wall. 
They  both  laughed.  A  new  Miss  Lord. 

She  was  letting  David  talk.  She  was  silent,  so  the  "moral 
tone"  was  silent.  Her  body  spoke  and  after  all  it  was  a 
lovely  body. 

David  chatted.  He  was  out  of  himself.  His  words  came 
frictionless.  His  words  slowed  down.  He  was  aware  of  the 
stimulus  that  had  taken  him  out  of  himself,  that  had  made 
him  chatter.  .  .  .  Caroline.  Lord.  He  saw  her.  Hands 
rested  in  her  lap:  white  strong  hands  in  a  wide  strong  lap. 
A  body  luxuriantly  full:  it  was  strong.  A  wave  of  light  from 
the  lamp  touched  her  hair,  made  it  a  glow  in  the  room.  .  .  . 
She  had  without  words  a  maternal  comeliness:  she  looked 
down,  while  he  spoke,  at  her  hands  with  a  girlish  reserve.  .  .  . 
David  got  up  and  kissed  her. 

She  flushed  and  did  not  respond.  He  kissed  her  several 
times. 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  297 

He  was  up  to  leave,  she  stood  close  under  him.  She  was 
warm.  A  certain  discomfort  kneaded  her  firm  body,  cloying 
it.  She  took  his  hand,  looked  down  at  it,  she  looked  up 
to  his  face,  not  quite  meeting  his  eyes.  She  squeezed  his 
hand  and  pressed  it  against  her  waist.  She  said: 

"You  can't  really  care  for  me,  David?" 

So  David  knew  he  did  not  really  care.  But  she  had  one 
charm:  the  joy  there  was  in  bringing  a  timid  flush  upon  so 
strong  a  body. 

He  came  frequently.  He  delighted  to  kiss  her.  Caroline 
Lord  loved  to  be  kissed. 

She  had  not  planned  this.  She  had  in  a  deep  way  planned 
nothing  in  her  life.  But  she  had  the  gift,  as  each  new  fact 
dawned  on  the  rim  of  her  world,  to  be  convinced  that  she 
had  ordered  it.  Since  David  was  there, — the  nephew  of  Mr. 
Deane — and  since  her  senses  loved  his  kissing  her,  she  planned 
a  marriage. 

The  unfortunate  circumstance  was  this:  by  the  time  she 
had  hatched  her  plans  and  cleared  the  way  in  her  mind, 
she  had  already  tasted  the  delight  of  being  kissed  by  David. 
And  this  was  unfortunate  because  she  felt  as  part  of  her 
campaign  toward  marriage  the  need  of  circumspection  in 
such  advances  as  kisses. 

David  noticed  no  change  at  first.  Miss  Lord  feared  to  go 
too  fast.  She  had  a  sickening  sense  that  she  might  lose 
all  in  her  effort  to  gain  all.  She  found  herself  shamefully 
willing  to  temporize,  and  to  enjoy  the  evils  of  the  day. 

But  as  he  held  her  in  his  arms,  her  little  shifts  began. 

She  said  to  him:  "David,  you  do  care  for  me?" 

"David,  if  I  felt  that  you  could  misunderstand  why  I  let 
you  kiss  me,  oh,  David, — it  would  kill  me." 

"David,  what  is  going  to  become  of  us?  I  feel  that  we 
must  be  doing  wrong." 

David  began  to  feel  how  she  was  indeed  asking  him  a 


298  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

question.  She  was  expecting  something  of  him.  He  must 
give  her  an  answer. 

He  said  to  himself:  "She  wants  me  to  propose  to  her.  Oh, 
I  am  sorry!"  His  passion  was  gone. 

He  was  too  kind  abruptly  to  stop  his  visits.  It  would 
have  been  the  kindest  thing  to  do.  But  David  was  not 
egoist  enough  to  know  it.  He  came  less  often,  and  left  her 
alone.  He  tried  to  talk  to  her.  He  realized  how  little  talk 
there  had  been  in  the  happy  visits:  how  fully  those  evenings 
of  delight  had  been  evenings  of  kisses.  The  talk  wearied  him; 
the  "moral  tone"  was  pervasive  and  obtrusive. 

"Give!  Give  yourself!"  her  blood  cried  against  her  tem 
ples. 

Had  she  given,  she  might  have  won  at  least  a  part  of 
him.  David  was  in  no  state  to  resist  self-bestowal.  Un 
known  to  himself,  he  was  wandering  through  life,  seeking  the 
life  that  would  exchange  with  his.  Nowhere  had  he  found 
it;  without  vision  of  that  he  would  be  ever  tantalizingly  re 
mote  from  capture. 

He  was  swollen  in  her  senses,  now  that  he  held  himself 
stiffly  away  in  his  chair  and  listened  to  her  words.  Her 
power  to  take-in  flooded  her  body  and  mellowed  it,  left  dim 
her  eyes  whereby  to  see  him.  She  saw  his  sweet  heaviness 
beneath  the  drab  of  his  suit.  She  had  a  sense  of  her  fingers 
running  through  his  hair,  of  being  drunk  with  him.  And 
it  was  possible!  The  room  was  quiet  and  suppliant.  The 
lamp  was  dim  for  such  secrecies.  She  fought  against  herself, 
and  passion  ran  through  her,  melting  her,  drenching  her,  like 
tears. 

But  she  was  a  lady.  She  had  not  reached  thirty  years  to 
be  seduced  by  a  boy  who  would  not  marry.  .  .  . 

His  visits  filtered  away:  ceased.  Again  he  invited  her  to 
an  occasional  lunch.  In  his  heart,  from  it  all,  there  remained 
chiefly  self-rebuke.  He  had  not  been  a  gentleman.  He  had 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  299 

kissed  her  with  casual  flippancy:  she  had  not  understood. 
Why,  he  wondered,  was  he  so  superficial  in  his  way  with 
women?  Why  was  their  hold  on  him  so  slight?  This  was 
not  love.  Tom  must  be  right,  and  love  did  not  exist. 
Friendship  was  the  deeper,  lovelier  passion.  ...  At  times,  he 
recalled  the  little  girl  in  the  car  or  his  mother.  .  .  . 

An  added  year  upon  the  emptiness  of  David. 

He  had  a  dream.  He  was  in  a  pit — or  was  it  a  well?  He 
groped  round  and  round  its  circular  bottom.  He  looked 
up.  Far  beyond  his  eyes  was  a  dimness  he  knew  was  Light. 
It  hurt  him  to  look  up.  It  made  him  dizzy.  It  made  him 
tremble.  He  groped  round  and  round.  .  .  .  Then,  he 
stopped.  Quite  still.  The  bottom  of  the  pit  swung  up  and 
struck  against  his  eyes.  Tom  lashed  him  from  behind  with 
a  whip.  "Go  ahead!"  Tom  muttered.  David  faced  about. 
The  well  began  to  swing  maddingly  around  with  shattering 
strokes  like  a  vast  piston.  The  bottom  where  he  groped 
swerved  up,  went  up,  high,  high.  He  had  the  sense  of  a  ter 
rific  altitude.  The  well  was  upside  down.  He  was  tumbling, 
rushing  down  the  well.  Beneath  him,  infinitely  far,  he  saw 
the  dimness  he  knew  was  Light.  .  .  . 

David  awoke:  horror  crept  over  all  his  flesh.  He  clutched 
his  bed.  He  lay  there  stabbed  by  every  mutter  of  the  night. 

It  was  long  before  his  mind  that  was  cowering  far  in  a 
corner  of  the  room  came  back  to  him,  sat  with  him,  took 
away  his  fears:  before  the  stirrings  of  the  dark  silence  ceased 
to  be  a  shatter  and  shriek  in  his  nerves. 

It  was  long  before  he  forgot  the  dream.  He  made  no  effort 
to  remember  it.  A  dream  was  a  bit  of  nonsense.  Nonsense 
also  that  its  mere  coming  to  his  mind  brought  back  the 
streaking  of  darkness  into  veins  of  horror.  .  .  . 

It  was  not  long  before  he  put  to  himself  for  the  first  time  a 
question:  What  was  killing  the  friendship  between  Tom  and 


300  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

himself?  For  an  uncharted  time,  he  had  been  in  fever,  in 
trance;  he  had  not  looked  at  all.  Now,  seeing  with  sudden 
eyes,  he  saw  their  friendship  and  how  it  had  changed,  and 
how  a  blight  was  on  it. 

Always  there  had  been  flurries  of  irritation;  swift  misgiv 
ings;  shadows.  How  much  else  there  had  been!  Warm 
communion:  the  sweet  living  in  Tom's  strength  and  in  the 
knowledge  of  his  caring:  the  sheer  delight  of  watching  his 
clear  mind  cut  through  the  mists  of  life,  like  a  bird  soar  and 
sing  over  his  head.  Where  now  these  delights?  ...  It  came 
to  David  how,  for  a  long  time  already,  they  had  not  been.  .  .  . 

Tom  came  home  without  taking  his  dinner.  He  was  not 
hungry:  also  he  knew  that  David  would  be  out.  He  sat 
motionless  in  his  favorite  straight-back  chair  and  took  the 
storm  of  his  senses  with  heroic  grimness. 

In  such  an  hour,  David's  absence  moved  him  obliquely. 
He  was  glad  of  his  solitude  in  their  room:  fearful  of  the 
tread  in  the  hall  that  must  break  it.  And  yet,  he  was  listen 
ing,  yearning, — suddenly  possessed  of  the  sense  of  something 
missing,  and  that  thing  vital,  and  that  thing  David.  He 
caught  himself  back,  in  an  eternal  question:  "If  he  were  here, 
what  would  you  say  to  each  other? " 

This  raging  schism  there  was  in  all  his  thoughts:  he 
yearned  to  hold  David,  and  he  yearned  to  be  rid  of  him. 
Two  monsters,  these  desires,  feeding  upon  each  other,  feed 
ing  upon  him.  He  helpless  against  them.  If  he  wounded  the 
one,  its  hurt  was  strength  to  the  other.  How  could  he  kill 
the  one,  without  being  overwhelmed  at  once  by  its  opponent? 
In  their  balance  he  was  torn  away  by  conflict,  yet  in  their 
balance  he  was  saved  from  some  black  annihilation  he  could 
not  envisage.  How  could  he  lose  David  altogether?  In  what 
realm  lived  his  wish  altogether  to  have  him? 

David  came  in. 

Night  had  crept  up  sweetly  from  the  street.    The  City 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  301 

brooded  in  memory  of  an  August  which  had  come  like  a 
woman's  madness.  It  was  still  warm.  A  breeze  came'  danc 
ing  through  the  open  window.  The*  room  where  Tom  sat 
rigid  seemed  faintly  a-swing  in  a  sea:  the  glow  and  scent 
and  murmur  of  the  City  was  a  wave,  heaving  the  room.  The 
wind  whipped  it  gently. 

David  came  in  and  saw  Tom  sitting  so  strangely  stiff;  he 
stopped.  Tom,  this  time,  had  not  budged.  He  looked  at 
Davicf.  He  saw  his  open  gentle  face  and  its  sweetness,  he 
knew  how  unbearable  it  was  that  he  should  lose  him. 

"David,  won't  you  come  and  sit  down?" 

David  came.     Crossing  the  room,  he  stumbled  on  the  rug. 

"David  .  .  .  what  is  there  wrong  between. us?" 

His  head  was  turned  toward^  his  friend.  David  looked; 
there  was  Tom's  full,  face  pleading  toward  him.  His  eyes 
were  bright  in  the  shadow:  they  glanced  with  a  sharp  pain 
and  a  great  welling  wish,  like  tears. 

David's  hand  instinctively  went  out:  he  rested  it  upon  his 
own  knee. 

"I  don't  know,  Tom.  ...  I  don't  know." 

Very  faintly  he  spoke.  There  was  a  warm  moistness  in  his 
rnouth. 

"David,  I  am  sorry!  I  am  sorry  for  so  many  things.  But 
I  love  you,  David.  I  am  your  real  friend.  .  .  .  You  believe 
that,  don't  you?" 

"Tom,  I  don't  know  how." 

"What  have  I  done  to  make  you  doubt  my  friendship?" 

David's  chance!  Simple  and  naked  stood  the  issue  be 
tween  them.  Let  him  but  meet  it.  Had  he  not  grievances 
enough?  No:  he  would  not  say  "grievances."  Had  he  not 
reasons — inexorable  reasons? 

He  sat  there,  looking  away  toward  the  window.  Swiftly, 
now,  it  was  getting  dark.  The  frame  of  the  window  seemed 
very  far  away — dimly  etched  out  against  the  surrounding 


302  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

darkness.  The  window  was  light.  With  a  vague  stir  that 
was  heliotropic,  David  gazed  on  it. 

His  mind  had  the  sudden  need  of  grasping  reasons.  Rea 
sons  were  scurrying,  scattering,  melting  away. 

His  reasons — his  reasons  for  doubting  that  Tom  was  his 
friend!  Where  were  they?  Why  did  he  want  reasons,  after 
all?  Was  not  Tom  sitting  there  with  tears  in  his  eyes  no 
dimmer  than  this  light,  pleading  for  faith?  Had  he  not 
previously  understood  with  a  rare  insight  he  was  proud  of, 
the  problem  of  Tom?  Here  he  was,  collecting  reasons,  pick 
ing  up  reasons!  Missiles  to  strike  with?  Why?  Why  "not? 
Was  he  not  unhappy  with  Tom?  Was  not  his  whole  life 
poisoned  by  this  poison  that  hid  in  their  friendship?  He 
was  not  seeking*  stones  to  attack  with,  he  was  seeking  defense. 
Many  reasons  there  were,  if  only  he  could  fasten  his  mind — • 
how  strange  it  was  swerving  about! — to  take  them  up. 

Tom  said: 

"I  know — I  know — I  know "  He  was  mentioning 

faults.  He  was  proving  they  were  no  reasons.  "But  we  are 
friends,  Davie.  Oh,  do  you  not  feel  there  is  no  one  I  love 
like  you?  Not  my  sister,  Davie!  No  one.  Everything  I 
would  throw  away  to  help  you.  My  work,  my  ambitions — 
what  makes  them  bearable,  David,  except  your  friendship? 
Can't  you  understand.  .  .  ." 

There  was  something  wrong.  Under  the  precision  of  Tom's 
words,  something  wrong.  Above  the  clouded  stretch  of  Tom's 
emotions,  something  wrong.  Something  wrong.  The  reasons! 
For  God's  sake,  the  reasons! 

David  began  to  stammer:  "You  tell  Lunn  and  Durthal  you 
are  their  friend.  To  me  you  run  them  down.  How  should 
I  know  .  .  .  ?" 

He  stopped.  Tom  was  silent.  No:  this  was  no  reason. 
David  could  know.  David  needed  no  proof.  He  had  to  for 
give  these  stupid  relationships  of  Tom. 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  303 

"How  should  you  know?"  asked  Tom.  "Ask  yourself, 
David." 

Groping  again.  There  sat  his  friend.  He  felt  him  like  a 
flame  in  the  dark.  Why  was  he,  David,  crouched  there, 
gathering  strength  to  strike  him?  Why  could  he  not  accept 
him?  .  .  .  Past  pains,  past  miseries.  He  had  not  wanted 
better  than  to  accept  him.  What  had  cast  him  off?  Surely 
not  his  desire?  Tom  it  was,  who  made  him  not  accept  him. 
He  was  not  fighting.  He  was  holding  himself  safe.  By  God! 
holding  himself  clean.  Reasons!  Reasons  against  Tom! 

"What  help  do  you  give  me  in  my  troubles?"  he  said,  low 
in  his  seat:  half  to  himself:  placing  his  words  before  him 
very  near,  as  if  to  look  at  them,  rather  than  give  them  to 
Tom — lest  he  wish  to  recall  them.  "I  have  my  worries.  I 
have  to  keep  them  to  myself.  Is  that  what  I  should  feel 
with  my  friend?  I  have  had  problems  with — women.  If  I 
mention  them  to  you,  you  sneer  or  laugh  or  turn  hard.  And 
difficulties  with  my  relatives — worries  downtown.  .  .  ." 

"I  do  not  coddle  you,  David." 

How  much  he  laid  upon  these  words,  and  how  these  words 
were  like  a  shaft — running  slow  from  Tom  to  him!  .  .  .  Did 
David  wish  ease  and  flattery  from  friendship?  Did  David 
wish  help  that  might  hurt,  or  soothing  that  would  hinder? 
David  was  childish  and  selfish.  No!  Torn  could  not  take 
so  seriously  his  petty  affairs  with  women.  Oh,  yes,  he  knew 
about  them — every  one:  or  his  untidy  problems  with  his 
uncle's  family  or  with  his  Chief  downtown.  No!  he  was  not 
David's  wet-nurse.  If  he  wanted  a  friend — one  who  took 
him  ever  upon  the  most  real  level,  who  by  dint  of  treating 
him  as  mature  and  strong  might  help  him  to  achieve  maturity 
and  strength  .  .  . 

David  again  gazed  at  the  light  casemented  from  the  night- 
packed  room.  There  was  something:  yes,  there  were  reasons. 
These  were  not  the  true  ones.  Let  him  then  say  aloud: 


304  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

"These  are  not  the  true  reasons,  Tom."  What  would  hap 
pen?  Tom's  quiet  voice — he  was  quiet  now:  why  was  his 
voice  not  always  so  quiet — would  ask:  "And  the  true  reasons, 
David?"  His  answer!  Let  him  now  bring  forth  his  answer. 
Why  was  that  silly  nightmare  protruding  in  his  mind?  Tom 
was  a  flame  in  the  room.  It  burned  him.  Let  him  come  to 
hate  it,  to  avow  his  hatred! 

"It  seems,  Tom,  that  we  are  so  very  far  apart."  Oh,  but 
were  they  not  near?  To  whom  was  David,  these  past  years, 
growing  and  nearing?  "I  do  not  know  how  to  express  my 
dreams,  my  ideals,  Tom.  I  am  not  ashamed  of  that.  I  have 
time  to  learn  to  express  them.  But  they  are  real.  I  feel 
as  if  to  you,  they  are  not  real.  You  have  no  love  for 
them  ...  no  faith.  .  .  ."  He  was  silent.  He  went  on: 
"When  a  woman  is  going  to  have  a  child,  she  has  not  seen 
it,  she  does  not  know  how  it  looks  or  what  it  will  be  named. 
But  it  is  real  to  her,  and  she  loves  it." 

"Can't  you  see,  David,  that  this  child  in  you, — this  dream- 
life  at  your  heart — is  what  I  love  more  than  all  in  the  world?" 

"You  are  perpetually  hurting  me:  sneering  at  me:  stabbing 
my  efforts  to  understand  with  your  logical  proofs  that  under 
standing  and  ideals  and  truth  are  nonsense!" 

"Is  this,  then,  why  you  doubt  my  friendship?" 

"That  vague  thing  in  my  heart  is  very  near  to  me." 

"And  to  me,  David!" 

"Then  why  do  you  say  the  things  you  do? — and  why — 
Tom— why  .  .  .  ?" 

"Yes,  David?" 

"Why  do  you  do  the  things,  and  lead  the  life  you  do?" 

"Oh,  David,  if  you  would  help  me  to  understand?" 

"Are  you  sincere?" 

"No,  David,  I  am  not  sincere.    Help  me  to  be  sincere." 

"It  seems  to  me  that  sincerity  must  be  there  first  of  all." 

"We  are  not  all  so  fortunate  as  you  are,  David." 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  305 

"I  do  not  understand." 

"Nor  I.  I  want  to  be  sincere.  I  want  to  be  strong  enough 
to  be  always,  always  sincere,  as  I  am  now  sincere  only  with 
you." 

"Tom,  what  does  all  this  mean?'7 

"Can't  you  believe  me  when  I  tell  you,  I  do  not  under 
stand?  I  try,  Davie!  It  hurts.  You  ask  me  for  help.  I 
have  helped  you  often,  Davie.  Perhaps  most  when  I  seemed 
cruel  and  harsh  and  distant.  Isn't  that  true?  But  you  seem 
to  think  I  must  be  always  strong.  My  mind — my  poor  mind 
you  expect  so  much  of,  Davie — I  hate  it  at  times,  because, 
if  it  has  helped  you,  it  has  done  me  disservice.  It  has  es- 
stranged  us.  I  am  weak,  also.  Oh,  dear,  dear  Boy,  I  am 
weaker  than  you!  You  spoke  of  a  woman  who  is  to  be  a 
Mother.  What  is  so  strong  as  such  a  woman?  Her  fidelity 
to  her  child,  her  confidence,  her  vast  unuttered  love  of  which 
all  her  being  is  symbol.  The  breath  she  takes,  the  food  she 
eats — is  for  a  purpose.  That  is  strength,  David.  Even  if 
she  cannot  name  her  child,  or3  call  it.  And  you  are  indeed 
like  that.  You  have  a  strength  a  little  like  that  woman. 
I  love  you  for  that,  David!  I  have  no  such  purpose.  When 
one  has  purpose,  growing  within  one, — one's  flesh  and  blood, — - 
it  is  easy  to  be  sincere.  When  one  has  no  such  purpose,  it 
is  hard.  .  .  .» 

"Tom,  you  do  not  know  how  you  hurt  me." 

"Will  you  stand  those  hurts,  for  my  sake?" 

Why  should  he?  Why  should  he?  What  load  of  service 
was  Tom  placing  upon  him?  And  the  reasons  for  this?  Tom 
was  speaking  again: 

" all  I  can  say  is  that  all  my  life  seems  suddenly  to 

run  on  edge.  Off-track.  It  is  hard  to  explain  .  .  .  two  lines 
faintly  divergent  at  first,  yet  how  they  widen!  .  .  .  Some 
little  dissonance  deep  in  my  heart,  and  it  creeps  into  all  the 
words  I  say,  at  times,  into  all  the  acts  I  do:  the  discord  widens 


3o6  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

and  multiplies.  Until  it — shrieks!  Do  you  understand  at 
all?" 

No,  David  could  not  understand.  Tom  could  not  under 
stand.  With  bleeding  nerves,  he  had  made  this  symbol  of 
his  self -division.  It  was  beautifully  true.  But  to  make  the 
symbol  was  not  to  understand  it. 

Yet,  although  neither  saw,  they  were  impressed.  Tom's 
words  were  nonsense,  perhaps :  but  they  were  like  song.  They 
held  their  hearers.  The  more  raptly  since  neither  knew  that 
this  was  music.  So  birds,  perhaps,  listen  to  song  and  dimly 
descrying  its  beauty,  which  is  its  meaning,  obey  its  call. 
David  was  silent.  He  was  near  Tom.  A  new  plenitude  in 
Tom  that  hurt  him  no  less  than  the  emptiness  he  had  feared. 

A  very  faint  pull  from  himself,  a  very  faint  losing  of  bal 
ance.  As  it  went  on,  from  deep  within  him,  invisibly  deep,  it 
widened  toward  the  world. 

Tom  sat  still,  seeing  his  hurt,  seeing  he  could  not  heal  it. 
He  had  to  watch  a  bleeding  he  could  not  stem.  He  watched 
it,  now:  with  David  watching  him.  He  saw  the  dissonant 
thing  that  spread  and  shattered  his  world:  he  saw  the  deepest 
of  his  thrusts  to  right  himself  die  far  from  the  mark.  .  .  . 

And  David  there  before  him  with  clear  eyes!  David  ready 
to  judge  him!  David  in  search  of  words  wherewith  to  judge 
him!  .  .  .  Tom  came  to  himself  in  anger.  All  his  effort  to 
be,  for  once,  harmoniously  himself  rose  up  from  its  defeat 
and  surged  toward  David.  Anger  for  David!  If  he  lacked 
fingers  long  and  skilled  enough  to  remove  this  cancer  in  his 
friendship,  setting  him  balanceless  toward  life,  then  let  him 
blot  it  out.  Let  David  be  blotted  out!  ... 

He  turned  against  him. 

"The  worst  thing  about  you  is  that  you  make  me  take  you 
seriously.  Your  troubles  are  nothing  but  selfishness.  Selfish 
ness  is  insatiate.  So  is  a  dull  humorlessness  like  yours.  My 
Lord,  man,  what  a  state  you  put  me  in  just  because  we're 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  307 

friends — just  because  I  want  to  think  well  of  you,  well  of  your 
interests  and  your  doubts.  What  is  it  all  about?  Eh,  tell 
me  that.  What  the  Devil  have  you  to  complain  of?" 

He  stood  over  David  and  menaced  him  with  words. 
"You're  a  spoilt  child:  what  you  need  is  a  Mamma.  If  you 
had  a  spark  of  wit  you'd  roar  at  yourself,  roar  at  me  when 
I  am  fooled  by  your  childishness  into  being  tender.  I  am  to 
give,  and  give,  and  give.  If  I  weary  or  get  out  of  breath,  I 
am  judged.  Supposing  I  turned  about,  just  for  a  change, 
and  began  judging  you?" 

David  sat  numb.  The  need  of  striking  back,  the  need 
of  defense — where  was  it?  Tom  lighted  the  gas-jets.  Every 
gas-jet.  The  room  showed  yellow  and  hard.  The  light  was 
like  the  lying  of  sand,  the  room  was  a  barbarous  arena. 
Tom's  eyes  were  one  with  the  blazing  gas-jets. 

Their  bell. 

"Sometimes  I  am  sick,  I  am  sick  of  it  all,"  said  Tom. 
"Sometimes  I  wonder  what  it  must  be  like,  just  for  a  moment 
to  be  taken  as  I  am: — to  be  embraced  in  understanding;  to 
receive." 

The  door  opened,  Durthal  and  Lunn  came  in. 

"You  have  come  just  in  time!"  he  clasped  their  hands. 
"You  have  rescued  me  from  the  presence  of  my  Maker!" 

Lunn  blinked.  Durthal  was  sniggling  already.  He  had 
caught  Tom's  mood,  the  directions  of  favor  and  attack.  That 
was  enough. 

"Oh— oh,"  Tom  laughed.  "Don't  look  scared.  Markand 
is  my  Maker.  Didn't  you  know  that?  Being  with  Markand 
is  a  perpetual  Day  of  Judgment.  Even  in  the  strictest  Faith 
that  should  come  only  once.  Living  with  Markand  it  never 
stops.  Down — down  one  must  go  on  one's  knees.  And  stay 
there." 

David  felt  Tom's  sneers  cut  him  and  bind  him  motionless. 

"I  am  sorry,  Tom.     I  did  not  mean " 


3o8  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

"Oh,  it  is  easy  for  him."  Tom  broke  his  words.  He  was 
facing  Durthal  and  Lunn  who  had  found  quick  seats  on  the 
couch,  as  one  hastens  to  settle  at  a  performance  that  has  be 
gun  already.  Tom's  back  was  to  David.  Lunn  was  peering 
toward  him  with  his  heavy  head  low  on  his  shoulders:  blink 
ing  and  smiling.  Durthal  beamed  into  Tom's  face. 

"It  is  easy  for  him.  You  see,  he  has  nothing  to  confess. 
His  soul  is  empty  of  sin.  Did  you  know  that,  you  fellows? 
He  can  promenade  about  in  his  soul  quite  freely,  as  one  takes 
a  stroll  by  the  sea-shore.  Altogether  empty,  I  assure  you — ' 
of  sin.  I  must  go  dragging  along." 

He  paced  up  and  down.     He  was  very  bitter. 

David  was  still  viced  in  the  hurt  of  the  interruption. 

"Well,  Darby,  how  is  the  picture?  It  promises,  my  dea/ 
chap,  to  be  the  best  you  have  done.  Real  improvement 
there.  .  .  .  No,  no — my  friend,  you  must  not  let  that  happen  1 
Stick  it  out.  I  don't  care  if  it  is  beginning  to  bore  you. 
Ability  to  stand  boredom  is  the  mark  of  power.  Yes.  .  .  . 
Inspiration  is  cheap  as  birds  twittering.  Sustainment  of  in 
spiration  is  rare  as  genius.  It  is  genius,  I  tell  you." 

Lunn  was  happy.  Tom  praised  his  picture:  called  him  his 
friend.  He  sensed  that  the  reason  for  all  this  was  devilish. 
It  made  no  difference.  One  had  to  take  Tom  as  he  came. 
Durthal  glared  snakishly  at  David:  dissatisfied  that  Tom's 
onslaught  was  in  abeyance. 

David  wished  to  right  himself.  Perhaps  he  was  sulking. 
Perhaps  Tom  was  watching  to  see  what  he  would  do.  Let 
him  try  to  join  in. 

"I  wish  you  would  let  me  see  some  of  your  pictures,  some 
time,"  he  said  to  Lunn. 

Lunn  frowned  ungraciously. 

"Sure,"  with  a  stirring  of  his  feet.    "Any  time." 

"They're  immoral,  David."  Tom  turned.  "They'll  shock 
you.  They  tell  the  truth.  They  accept  the  world  as  it  is." 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  309 

His  voice  had  a  sing-song  emphasis,  as  if  he  were  warning 
a  child  away  from  the  fire. 

"And  what  a  world  it  is!"  Durthal  had  merely  been  wait 
ing.  He  had  not  dared  hope  that  David  would  so  aptly  ac 
commodate  himself  to  his  hostile  wishes.  He  fell  in  at  once 
with  Tom's  accent.  "Better  not  see  them,  Markand.  The 
women  Lunn  paints  aren't  pure:  the  men  aren't  moral." 

"Think  of  that,  Davie!  Wasting  his  good  time  painting 
impure  women!" 

Lunn  bobbed  his  long  head  with  delight. 

"I  would  paint  a  pure  person,  if  I  could  find  one." 

Tom  came  up  to  David,  and  placed  his  hand  under  his  chin. 

"What  about  this?"  he  said. 

David  was  stiff,  waiting  for  the  hand  to  go  away. 

"How  can  we  be  sure  he's  pure?"  exclaimed  Durthal. 

"That  is  true,"  Tom  stepped  away  a  little.  "We  must  be 
sure.  How  can  we  be  sure?  .  .  .  David,  give  us  your  cre 
dentials.  Your  proofs.  For  Lunn's  sake,  DavidL  Think  of 
the  unhappy  fix  he  is  in — painting  nothing  but  wicked  crea 
tures!  Think  what  an  unselfish  service  you  can  perform." 

" if  he  is  pure,"  Durthal  insisted. 

"Yes.    If  you  are  pure,"  said  Tom. 

All  three  of  them  smiled.  All  three  of  them  fell  spontane 
ously  to  this  delicious  game  of  baiting  David.  The  ugliness 
of  life,  the  folly  of  hope — these  were  their  themes.  They 
seemed  to  be  baiting  not  so  much  David  as  a  Dream  in 
David:  a  bloom  of  loveliness  in  David  thinking  the  world 
was  lovely.  This  was  the  unbearable  presence  in  the  room, 
the  maddening  thing.  This  they  joined  hands  and  minds  to 
blemish  and  befoul.  .  .  . 

David  was  stark  with  the  treachery  of  Tom.  He  could 
manage  Tom.  It  was  bitter  hard,  but  he  could  manage  Tom. 
These  others — these  living  missiles  of  mud  Tom  used  to  fling 
at  him,  now  he  was  weak  and  angry: 


310  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

Tom  goaded  on.  Never  had  he  been  so  lonely,  never  had 
he  needed  David  more.  Yearning  to  fling  himself  on  David's 
side,  to  his  feet,  his  words  grew  sharper,  falser. 

"He  is  silent,"  mocked  the  emboldened  Durthal.  "Perhaps 
he  isn't  pure,  at  all.  This  is  important,  you  know.  How 
shall  we  ever  find  out?" 

"But  even  if  he  is,  do  you  think,  Darby,  that  would  make 
him  worth  painting?"  Tom  leaned  back  on  his  heels  and 
poised  David.  "Yes,"  he  said  slowly,  "he  is  worth  painting." 

"Tell  us,  Markand — are  you  what  you  profess  to  be,"  Dur 
thal  mock-pleaded. 

David  was  up.  He  was  white.  He  was  suddenly  strong 
and  gentle. 

He  walked  to  the  door  and  opened  it. 

"Get  out,"  he  said. 

They  sat  there,  rigid.  They  looked  to  Tom.  The  gap  of 
the  open  door  was  a  drawing  burn  upon  them.  Tom  said  no 
word.  He  gave  a  little  laugh  and  was  silent  also. 

Lunn  fumbled  for  his  hat. 

"Guess  I'll  be  going,"  he  rose  jerkily  to  his  feet.  Durthal 
rose  glibly. 

They  came  close  to  David.  His  hand  held  the  door  wide 
open.  They  passed  his  eyes;  they  strained  to  hold  to  their 
slow  pace.  As  they  moved  down  the  dark  hall,  they  had  the 
sense  in  their  backs  of  an  impending  blow.  .  .  . 

David  stood  with  his  back  against  the  shut  door.  He  had 
done  a  violent  thing;  he  was  afraid  he  had  done  wrong. 
These  were  Tom's  friends.  No — by  the  truth — these  were 
not!  But  by  what  human  right — he  could  not  look  at  Tom's 
eyes.  He  had  a  sense  of  guilt.  All  his  sense  of  hurt  was 
gone  before  his  sense  of  guilt.  Tom  stood  waiting  for  his 
eyes,  in  order  to  tell  him  with  his  own  how  much  he  thanked 
him. 

David  struggled  with  his  body:  turned  it  about:  left  the 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  311 

room.  He  knew  he  would  go  wandering  aimless  through  the 
streets.  Tom  was  alone.  His  eyes  had  failed  to  give  their 
message. 

He  had  not  moved  from  his  seat.  He  sat  upright,  rigid. 
Had  sentence  been  passed  against  him:  and  why  was  it 
good?  And  why  were  his  hands  so  empty?  A  strange  de 
spair  crept  over  Tom,  stiffened  his  muscles,  dimmed  his 
mind.  So  he  sat,  knowing  not  how  long.  .  .  . 

A  knock  at  the  door.  Another  knock.  He  lifted  his  head 
laborious^  to  see  the  door.  He  saw  the  room.  It  was  cruel 
clear.  The  ugly  paint  of  the  woodwork,  the  neat  pale  paper 
cutting  and  empty  against  him,  the  rocker  where  David  loved 
to  sit  and  where  he  felt  his  absence  like  a  poignant  mirthless 
presence.  How  terrible  clear  was  the  room's  emptiness  and 
the  path  of  something  sweet  that  had  been  there  and  was 
gone!  Two  grimaces  remained,  sitting  on  the  couch,  sitting 
for  him.  ...  It  knocked  again.  .  .  .  "He  felt  that  he  was 
very  faint.  "I  had  no  supper,"  he  said.  "It  is  knocking." 
He  knew  that  his  head  was  light. 

"Come  in." 

The  door  burst  open.  A  little  boy  stamping  in:  a  mes 
senger  boy.  His  face  round  and  swarthy.  His  eyes  roamed 
about  the  room  like  listless  beasts,  taking  in  nothing. 

"Rennard?"  he  shouted.  Strangely  his  eyes  wandered,  took 
in  nothing!  Such  tired  eyes:  such  disillusioned  eyes.  So 
weary  a  boy.  He  was  not  there. 

In  Tom's  hands  a  letter. 

His  unconscious  glance  made  him  know  already  without 
knowledge  it  was  from  Cornelia.  He  sat,  holding  the  letter 
out  as  his  hands  had  received  it:  unopened.  .  .  . 

"What  does  she  want?"  beat  sluggish  in  his  head  like  an 
alarum  chiming  through  thick  fog. 

He  opened  it:  he  put  on  his  hat:  he  was  gone. 

This  sense  he  had  very   sharp:    that  he  was  gone.     He 


3i2  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

should,  he  felt,  have  stayed,  stayed  in  their  room  until  David 
returned.  But  Cornelia  wanted  him.  Coming  to  her,  he  had 
this  detached  sense:  that  he  was  gone.  .  .  . 

She  gave  him  both  her  hands.  He  felt  her  face,  its  sweet 
ness,  its  dear  sweet  homeliness.  He  saw  that  she  was  glad 
he  had  come,  and  that  she  had  missed  him:  how  she  would 
always  forgive  him,  and  how  cruelly  for  near  two  years  he 
had  been  treating'  her. 

She  placed  a  letter  in  his  hand.  He  faced  it.  He  went  to 
the  couch  suddenly  and  sat  down.  .  .  . 

The  pall  lifted  that  was  over  his  great  hurt,  he  knew  how 
he  was  suffering.  The  world  had  been  clear — their  room — 
and  he  in  cloud:  it  had  been  like  a  shrill  close  lake  under  a 
hidden  sky.  Now  all  else  was  dim  save  the  burning  sun  of 
his  hurt.  The  letter  was  from  their  sister,  Ruth:  it  told  of 
the  death  of  their  father. 

Tom  hid  his  face,  he  buried  also  his  hard  hands  in  the 
cushions.  That  he  might  clench  his  fists  and  his  teeth,  un 
seen.  Cornelia  placed  her  hand  on  his  shoulder.  She  was 
torn  by  his  weeping. 

He  righted  himself.  His  eyes  were  burned  with  tears. 
Cornelia  sat  beside  him.  She  took  his  hand.  She  placed  his 
hand  to  her  lips. 

"Dear  Tom!"  She  was  trying  to  smile.  Instead  of  the 
smile,  came  tears  to  her  also.  She  turned  away  her  face, 
struggling,  not  understanding. 

'  "I  am  not  weeping  for  father,"  said  Tom.  "I  am  weeping 
for  ourselves.  ...  So  are  you!" 

Cornelia  gave  way.  She  also  hid  her  face  in  order  to  give 
way.  Tom,  stroking  her  hand,  looked  beyond  them:  from 
the  sun  of  his  hurt  into  the  dim  world, 


XIII 


CORNELIA  loved  to  sit  by  her  open  window  and  look 
out. 
She  had  the  need  of  seeing  the  City  clear:  a  cold 
pattern.     Her  own  mind  was  chaos  and  she  saw  no  help  to 
crystallize  the  swirling  problems   that  consumed  her.     Like 
one  who  in  great  heat  wins  comfort  from  vision  of  cool  waters, 
she  thought  of  the  City  as  a  design,  carefully  plotted  out. 

It  was  not  easy.  Looking  beyond  her  house,  with  the 
street  swarming  in  her  eyes  and  the  battlemented  roofs  surg 
ing  above  her  head,  she  was  dim  in  revery.  In  the  dimness, 
the  City  lost  its  geometric  outlines.  It  veered  in  and  out 
of  her  grasp  like  a  delirious  dream:  its  streets  were  parabolas, 
freighted  with  teeming  particles  of  life  which  each  had  a 
centrifugal  direction.  It  all  was  a  frangent  swarm,  knotted, 
heaving  upon  itself,  forever  ashift.  She  saw  it  a  monstrous 
replica  of  her  own  mind:  there  was  no  relief. 

She  struggled  with  it.  She  said  to  herself:  "What  is  so 
regular  as  the  streets  of  New  York?"  When  she  dispelled 
her  inchoate  vision,  also  there  was  pain.  For  now  she  had 
the  sense  of  streets  cut  livid  through  human  lives:  each  street 
was  a  sharp  thrust  and  heaped  about  it  mounds  of  desiccated 
bones. 

At  last  Cornelia  shut  the  City  out.  She  sat  in  her  little 
rocking  chair  with  a  candle  glowing,  and  huddled  upon  herself 
as  if  her  pains  were  a  swinging  swarm  about  her.  With  hid 
den  eyes  she  came  to  a  dim  world  of  thought. 

She  had  never  needed  to  find  the  word  for  what  she  felt 
toward  David.  Often,  she  needed  to  say  to  herself  in  self- 


3i4  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

assertion:  I  am  a  woman.  Her  life  brought  doubt  of  that. 
Were  women  supposed,  like  her,  to  live  alone  and  work,  and 
have  no  home,  and  have  no  one  to  care  for?  Her  instinct 
despaired  often  of  the  life  she  gave  her  body  and  her  mind. 
In  protest,  sometimes  it  would  speak:  am  I  a  woman?  But 
here  was  a  harmony  so  deep  it  required  no  voice  outside  itself: 
in  what  she  felt  toward  David.  Long  since  it  was  an  atmos 
phere:  a  wide  world  she  fed  in  or  starved  in:  howsoever,  lived 
and  would  die  in.  She  did  not  say  to  herself:  I  am  in  the 
world.  She  did  not  speak  to  herself  of  her  own  self  with 
David.  Endlessly,  now,  she  worried  about  him,  asked  herself 
how  she  could  help  him.  Still  more  frequently,  she  asked 
herself  how  she  could  save  him.  And  in  her  next  question: 
Save  him  from  what?  she  was  already  deep  in  her  tangled 
problem.  She  was  like  one  who  lived  at  the  edge  of  a  dark 
forest:  whithersoever  she  went,  with  a  step  there  she  was 
in  it.  Its  tangled  shadows  were  always  at  her  side. 

Cornelia  could  understand,  could  also  not  understand. 
She  had  the  sense  that  David  suffered:  suffered  with  her 
brother.  She  had  the  instinct  of  some  struggle  hidden  be 
tween  them,  and  of  danger  for  them  both.  She  knew  not 
what  it  was.  So  it  was  horrible:  it  was  like  the  nocturnal 
stirring  ef  unknown  life  in  her  forest.  She  knew  it  was  not 
merely  the  worldliness  of  Tom,  his  efforts  to  make  David 
worldly.  She  knew  how  eased  she  must  have  been  to  believe 
it  was  no  worse.  But  touching  upon  this,  the  terror  still 
prowled  at  large.  She  had  no  hold  upon  her  terror. 

It  was  years  now,  growing  on  her  like  the  loom  of  a  Curse. 
It  blackened  and  dried  her  life.  She  lived  with  it.  All  of 
her  being  was  a  shrunken  point,  veering  blindly  about  in  order 
to  forfend  some  visitation  so  obscure  and  vast  that  she  was 
nothing  before  it.  If  it  was  fearful  that  she  knew  nothing 
to  bring  her  comfort,  it  was  fearful  as  well  that  she  knew 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  315 

nothing  to  knit  her  fear.  She  was  a  little  swirling  point  under 
a  sky  that  was  black. 

Sudden  words  came,  like  jagged  movements  in  her  mood. 
She  said:  "It  is  not  for  me  that  I  am  miserable.  I  do  not 
want  him  for  myself.  God  knows  I  have  no  hope  of  him  for 
myself.  It  is  not  that.  .  .  .  God  grant  it  be  true  that  under 
this  all,  it  is  not  merely  that  I  want  him  for  myself.  .  .  .  Oh, 
God  grant  it  be  only  this!  No  other  danger.  I  will  face 
that.  How  gladly  then  I  will  give  him  up!  .  .  ." 

She  buried  her  head  in  her  arms,  she  prayed:  she  knew  not 
what  to  pray  for.  She  had  the  sense  of  an  unholy  loneli 
ness,  of  praying  to  herself.  She  sprang  up,  wide-eyed,  looked 
at  her  long,  transparent  hands:  she  said  aloud:  "Why  am  I 
alive?" 

A  thought  came  sweeping  and  cleansing:  she  was  like  a 
sea  torn  by  swift  winds,  now  suddenly  a  sheet  of  rain  came 
down  and  smoothed  it,  soothed  it.  So  a  thought  came  glanc 
ing  and  offered  peace. 

"I  do  not  have  to  live,"  it  said.  And  that  in  her  which 
alone  she  did  not  question,  which  alone  needed  no  words 
since  her  whole  life  was  its  Word,  gave  answer. 

"No:  what  of  him?  With  David  in  trouble,  I  must  at 
least  be  here." 

Once  more  she  was  a  sea  churned  by  the  winds  of  her 
dilemma. 

But  at  least  she  had  the  faith  that  it  was  good  for  David 
that  she  should  live.  No  faith  this.  Rather  the  matrix  of 
her  life — the  hollow  of  the  world  in  which  lay  her  sea,  however 
restless  it  beat.  .  .  . 

Through  the  City  walked  Tom.  He  and  his  thoughts  were 
a  nimble  line  parting  the  City.  Through  the  warm  weather 
and  the  thick  crowds  of  men  and  women  he  cut.  Past  the 
great  loads  of  stone,  he  made  his  way.  He  was  in  Cornelia's 


316  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

room;  it  was  as  if  his  path  had  left  a  wake — half  fire,  half 
blood — where  his  thoughts  simmered  and  soaked  into  the  liv 
ing  City. 

"Cornelia,"  he  said  to  her;  "what  is  there  wrong  with  us?" 

She  looked  at  him.  She  loved  him.  She  was  glad  always 
to  be  with  him.  Why  did  he  not  come  back  to  her?  In 
that  way  alone  could  she  save  him.  If  he  stayed  where  he 
was 

"Let  us  cheer  up,  Tom  dear.  We're  depressed.  I  wouldn't 
have  thought  that  father's  death  could  depress  us  so." 

"You  know  better  than  that!" 

"Is  there  anything  more  wrong  with  us,  Tom,  than  with 
the  world?" 

Tom  smiled  wanly. 

"How  like  a  woman  that  is.  However  deep  we  rot,  if  the, 
world  rots  as  deep,  no  matter?  You  women  accept  the 
world.  .  .  .  Cornelia,  that  thojight  which  to  you  brings  con 
solation,  would  make  me  desperate." 

She  said:  "Perhaps  we  have  not  found  ourselves,  yet,  Tom." 

And  he:  "Father's  death  has  suddenly  set  me  to  thinking 
where  we  are:  and  you  to  feeling." 

"I  am  not  thinking  of  father.  Ruth's  letter  made  me 
think  far  more  of  Ruth.  Poor  wasted  Ruth.  And  Laura- 
bitter,  sick  Laura.  I  think  of  them." 

"Are  they  the  only  victims,  Sister?" 

Cornelia  was  pale.  She  drew  back  in  her  chair  as  if  Tom 
threatened  to  strike  her.  Tom  leaned  toward  her  and  with  a 
quiet  voice  went  on: 

"Cornelia,"  he  said,  "Father  is  dead.  The  father  we  re 
volted  from  and  left.  Tell  me,  Sister,  how  have  we  improved 
upon  him?" 

There  was  a  silence.  There  was  calm,  very  deliberate  in 
Tom.  He  was  smoking  a  cigarette.  He  took  the  red-tipped 
toy  and  held  it  before  his  eyes  and  looked  at  it;  he  blew  on 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  317 

it  with  his  half-parted  lips.  His  lips  were  very  hard  against 
his  teeth.  The  burning  tip  of  the  cigarette  flared  for  an 
instant  under  the  draught,  burned  more  ash. 

"Is  not  that  the  question  which  haunts  us,  Cornelia?" 

She  had  no  word  for  him.  She  felt  he  was  unjust  and  cruel. 
She  was  helpless  under  his  mood.  Always  in  the  past,  she 
had  been  able — the  sister,  the  mother  in  Cornelia — to  veer 
him  from  himself  and  from  herself  when  his  mood  went  shat 
tering.  She  had  been  wise  and  poiseful.  Now  she  lay 
quivering  with  him,  underneath  his  words. 

"We  don't  talk  very  often,  do  we,  of  father  and  the  past? 
I  wonder  why  we  avoided  them.  Were  they  not  the  scene 
of  our  great  Victory?  Where  is  our  pride,  Cornelia?"  He 
was  deliberate  and  slow:  his  irony  stiff  like  a  rod. 

"Just  think,"  he  said,  "'what  we  left:  what  we  overcame! 
Father!  He  is  dead  now.  His  remains — all  of  them,  includ 
ing  Ruth  and  Laura — lie  rotting  on  the  Farm.  We  should  be 
able  to  make  some  sort  of  estimate  of  what  he  was.  .  .  ." 

She  wanted  to  stop  him.  She  wanted  to  know.  Tom  was 
right.  Let  them  make  some  estimate  of  what  they  were. 

"...  a  man  whose  blood  had  turned  to  poison.  .  .  .  Do 
you  remember  how  he  used  to  beat  his  daughters?  The  thing 
to  remember  in  that  is  that  he  loved  it.  He  had  one  suc 
cessful  daughter:  Laura:  she  loved  it  also.  And  the  world 
we  lived  in,  Cornelia.  Few  children  are  brought  up  in  so 
real  a  world.  We  alone  had  no  illusions  about  America.  We 
knew  that  in  America,  quite  as  elsewhere,  only  the  few  were 
to  be  saved.  The  rest  were  damned.  We  knew  that  the 
deeds  of  the  masses  were  damned  deeds  here,  quite  as  in 
Europe.  Yes: — were  there  illusions  about  what  he  told  us 
of  the  Revolutionary  Fathers?  or  the  Pioneers?  We  were 
wise  children.  And  the  reason  was  simply  that  Father  taught 
us  to  see  the  truth.  Have  you  ever  thought  of  that?  He 
taught  us  better  than  he  knew,  himself.  For  Father  saw 


3i8  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

through  the  real  world:  he  saw  what  a  cold  and  lustful  mon 
ster  it  all  is.  But  he  had  his  way  of  refuge.  He  had  his 
God  who  had  predestined  him  to  heaven.  Blessed  Father! 
He  had  his  revenge,  for  there  was  always  the  same  God 
damning  the  irritating  mob  to  hell.  For  his  sake,  Sister.  .  .  . 
Do  you  see  what  I  mean?  Father  gave  us  his  knowledge 
for  weighing  facts,  which  means  that  he  gave  us  his  disillu 
sions  about  Earth.  But  we  did  not  stop  there.  We  turned 
that  same  power  against  his  own  fairy-tales.  God  went, 
heaven  went,  hell  went  also.  All  that  remained  was  the 
Earth  that  he  had  taken  from  us.  .  .  ." 

Tom  was  silent.     He  smoked  measuredly.     He  went  on: 

"Father  was  a  happy  man:  he  had  a  place  to  go  to,  from 
this  desecrated  world.  Father  was  a  strong  man:  he  had  his 
God.  Where  is  our  God,  Cornelia?" 

He  sprang  up.  His  eyes  flashed.  Deep  anger  was  with 
his  hands  above  his  head.  He  sank  down  once  more,  and 
dropped  his  cigarette. 

"We  have  no  gods,"  he  said.  "We  have  lost  the  old  one. 
We  have  won  no  new  ones." 

He  smiled  with  the  same  hard  half-parted  lips.  "I  ani  not 
sure  that  we  were  so  very  wise.  All  the  searing  and  desecrat 
ing  vision  that  Father  gave  us  of  this  reality  was  mere 
preparation  for  his  Faith.  .  He  and  his  kind  helped  desecrate 
the  world  in  order  to  enjoy  their  heaven.  Without  his  heaven, 
is  this  reality  he  gave  us  altogether  truth?  Where  are  we 
with  it?  What  is  an  abortion  in  relation  with  a  life  that  is 
fully  born?  We  rebelled;  we  left  him  and  his  blows  and  his 
hell  and  his  God.  We  took  with  us  the  corroding  poison  of 
his  blood.  Were  we  not  fools,  Cornelia?" 

"But,  Tom,  what  else  could  we  have  done?" 

"Nothing,  of  course." 

"Then,  perhaps—" 

"Be  brave  and  honest,  for  once!     A  little  more  like  father 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  319 

His  souls  in  hell  could  also  not  have  done  otherwise.  .  .  ." 

"Toml    I  won't  believe  .  .  ." 

He  cut  her  short.  "Very  well,  then:  what  will  you  be 
lieve?" 

She  was  silenced.  His  smile  was  over  her,  a  hateful  bitter1 
triumph. 

"That  is  it}  precisely.  Don't  you  see?  What  mil  we  be 
lieve,  Cornelia?" 

He  came  and  lifted  her  out  of  her  chair.  They  sat  down 
on  the  couch.  His  hand  was  very  gentle  on  hers.  He  kissed 
her. 

"We  are  neither  the  old  nor  the  new,  Sister.     I  sometimes 
think  we  are  nothing.    We  are  not  happy.    We  are  not  strong. 
We  have  no  gods  at  all.'7 
1     "We  are  unhappy,  Tom." 

He  looked  at  her  fiercely. 

"Are  we  that?"  he  asked  her.     "Have  we  the  strength  to 
be  unhappy?     To  remain  unhappy?     Oh,  how  I  wish  I  could 
believe  that!" 
,     He  was  grasping  both  her  wrists.     He  dropped  them. 

"No,"  he  said.  "It's  a  lie.  We  are  nothing.  We  are  not 
even  martyrs.  I  with  my  Law — my  successful  rotten  Law; 
You  with  your  paltry,  remunerative  Art!  We  are  on  the  way. 
Something  is  on  the  way,  through  us,  perhaps,  through  the 
wilderness  of  life.  We  are  they  who  shall  fall  by  the  way 
side." 

Pie  looked  over  his  shoulder,  out  of  the  window.  The 
night  was  a  blue  haze,  deep  and  far.  It  was  streaked  with 
the  murmur  of  men,  with  the  glow  of  a  million  lights.  A 
tremor  ran  through  him  like  the  pulse  of  blood,  and  came 
about  them,  seated  in  the  room. 

"Let  us  face  that,  Cornelia  .  .  ." 

"But  Tom: — in  what  you  said — that  is  faith  of  a  sort.    You 


320  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

spoke  of  a  wilderness  to  go  through.     Of  a  way.     It  must 
lead  somewhere.     There  must  be  something  else?" 

"For  us?" 

"Perhaps  not  for  us." 

"I  should  like/'  Tom  pondered,  "to  have  some  Church  in 
which  to  perform  a  service  for  my  father." 

She  looked  at  him  close.     His  head  was  down.     She  took 
his  face  in  her  hands  and  touched  his  shut  eyes  with  her 
lips. 
,      "Dear  Tom!     Don't  I  help?" 

There  was  a  great  hope  in  her.  If  she  could  find  him 
again:  hold  him  again!  Tom,  her  first  child.  .  .  . 

He  was  searching  her  with  eyes  her  lips  had  opened. 

Her  thoughts  ran  on.  Dimly  she  felt  the  peril  in  her 
thoughts,  running  along.  .  .  .  No,  Tom  was  not  her  child. 
Tom,  no  longer.  He  was  like  her.  It  was  true.  Only,  he 
would  not  accept.  She  knew  the  wilderness  of  life  stretched 
mountainously  far  beyond  where  her  feet  could  bring  her. 
She  knew  the  truth  for  her  in  what  Tom  had  said.  She  had 
hoped,  not  for  herself,  but  for  him.  She  had  hoped  falsely. 
They  were  one — they  were  one.  For  there  was  another  who 
was  so  infinitely  more,  that  they  were  nothing. 

And  so  her  mind  ran  on,  while  Tom's  eyes  searched  her. 
David  was  not  maimed  like  them.  In  his  eyes  was  the 
promise  of  a  new  God.  And  Tom  was  waging  war  against 
that  promise.  Talk  as  he  would,  understand  as  his  mind 
made  him,  Tom  waged  war  against  that  faith  in  David  which 
he  lacked.  Strove  to  snatch  it  from  him:  steal  it  and  wear 
it  dead,  rather  than  let  David  go  on  alone,  with  his  eyes 
living. 

She  had  said  to  him:  "Do  I  not  help?" 

With  an  uncanny  closeness,  Tom  sought  in  herself  the 
answer. 

Cornelia  turned  her  eyes  away.     She  could  not  look  at  her 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  321 

brother.  It  was  her  brother  whom  she  loved.  Yet,  turning 
away  her  eyes,  she  felt  that  she  was  leaving  him  by  a  wild 
wayside,  to  parch  and  perish.  She  felt  that  even  so  let  it  be. 
All  of  her  must  be  girded  beyond  him. 

He  also  had  said  no  word.  He  went  to  the  window  and 
stood  there  looking  out.  She  knew  that  both  of  them  had 
understood.  .  ,  . 

Twelve  years  before  they  had  set  out  on  a  great  enterprise 
together.  They  had  come  up  from  a  common  childhood 
which  was  a  common  suffering.  They  had  reached  Being 
together.  Everything  they  had  was  a  thing  they  had  shared. 
The  sere  soil  of  the  world  was  a  single  path  they  had  traveled. 
Their  hands  had  been  joined.  Now,  facing  each  other  over 
the  communion  of  their  years,  they  were  prepared  for  war. 

The  bitterest  of  all  was  this:  that  it  seemed  natural.  It 
was  as  if  their  common  anguish,  the  hopes  born  of  their 
hated  home  and  the  fruits  they  had  wrung  courageously  from 
their  adventure,  pointed  inevitably  to  this  end.  For  the 
most  natural  of  all  was  this:  that  the  end  also  should  be 
bitter. 

The  death  of  their  father  had  brought  Tom  for  the  moment 
closer  to  Cornelia.  He  was  coming  again  to  see  her.  There 
had  been  months  without  a  sign  of  him.  She  knew  that 
when  this  mood  wore  out  there  would  be  months  again.  If 
she  had  questions  of  Tom,  there  was  no  time  to  lose. 

It  was  bitter  hard  to  bring  herself  to  speak  of  David. 
She  did  not  flinch: 

"How  does  your  friendship  stand  with  him?"  she  asked 
him. 

"It  is  stormy.  It  will  always,  I  guess,  be  stormy.  But 
it  will  always  be." 

They  were  at  war,  but  they  were  generous  to  each  other. 
Their  war  was  a  hidden  and  a  sacred  thing:  it  was  not  more 


322  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

nor  less  than  the  confronting  of  themselves  upon  the  path 
they  had  helped  hew,  had  helped  each  other  walk.  It  was  a 
hidden  thing,  but  they  had  no  desire  to  conceal  it.  They 
were  open  to  each  other  insofar  as  each  could  be.  They 
were  the  brother  and  sister  who  had  waged  life  and  war 
together. 

"Do  you  think  it  is  helping  David — this  'friendship'  that 
will  always  be?" 

"I  have  not  your  acute  moral  sense,  Cornelia.     How  should 
I  know?" 
j     She  bit  her  lips. 

"Why,"  he  asked  with  his  ironic  smile,  "why  don't  you  ask 
if  it  is  helping  me!" 

^  "You  have  made  it  plain  to  me,  Tom,  that  you  do  not 
need  my  help.  Out  of  self-protection  I  had  to  withdraw 
thinking  too  much  of  that." 

f-  He  nodded  as  if  he  understood  and  agreed.  This  hurt 
Cornelia.  Even  the  words  of  contradiction  would  have  been 
hostage  to  something  precious. 

f  "David  is  growing  masterful.  That  much  I  can  say  for 
our  friendship.  I  told  you  how  he  turned  Lunn  and  Durthal 
out  of  our  place,  one  evening.  What  I  did  not  tell  you 
was  this:  the  following  day  David  was  contrite.  He  wanted 
to  apologize  for  the  splendid  thing  he  had  done.  I  would 
not  let  him." 

"Why?" 

"What  he  did  was  himself.  It  is  himself  I  care  for.  I 
will  not  let  him  be  a  renegade  to  his  own  instincts." 

She  laughed  at  him.  It  was  an  effort,  turning  her  bitterness 
to  laughter. 

"In  the  contradiction,  you  simply  had  a  higher  sort  of 
triumph.  Don't  you  think  I  understand?  You  labor  to  beat 
him  down  and  break  him.  When  you  see  signs  of  your  work 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  323 

you  turn  about.     When  you  get  him  beaten  and  broken  at 
last,  doubtless  you  will  have  no  more  use  for  him." 


"Doubtless,  Cornelia." 
"Tom!     Leave  David  alone!" 


His  cutting  calm  had  parted  her  restraint.  All  o'f  her 
fear  threatened  to  burst  out.  She  was  close  to  Tom,  beseech 
ing.  In  a  moment,  her  hands  would  be  suppliant. 

He  let  her  plead. 

"Do  that  for  me,  Tom.  Leave  him!  Insult  him!  Turn 
him  away!" 

"I  often  try  to.  It's  no  use.  I  can  sustain  no  mood  long 
enough  for  that." 

She  was  blinded  by  his  words  into  a  sense  of  hope. 

"Oh,  a  little  longer!  Send  him  to  me.  He  never  comes 
to  me,  now.  He  will  if  you  send  him.  I'll  help  you,  Tom." 

She  stopped.  She  saw  the  folly  of  her  outburst.  Was 
there  not  war  between  them?  He  was  there  with  his  irony. 

"What  have  you,  really,  against  our  friendship?  There 
is  something  unreasonable  in  this.  What  is  it?  Of  course,  I 
shall  send  him  to  you.  I  promise  that." 

Never  had  she  seen  him  so  contained  before  her.  He  was 
winning.  A  flourish  and  a  dare  in  his  promise  to  send  him. 
She  pressed  her  lips  with  hands  that  had  been  almost  sup 
pliant  before  her  brother.  She  would  accept  his  ironic 
bounty:  turn  it  against  him.  Many  a  battle  was  lost  through 
excess  of  confidence.  She  could  not  answer  his  questions. 

"You  talk,  positively,  Sister,  as  if  I  were  ruining  the  lad, — 
instead  of  slowly  bringing  him  up." 

"Bringing  him  up  to  what?" 

"Well,  to  what?     I  ask  you?" 

"Tom,  I  cannot  explain.  There  is  something  here  I  cannot 
explain.  I  want  David  to  be  free  of  you.  That  is  all." 

"So  you  can  have  him? — is  that  all?" 

"You  know  that's  a  lie!" 


324  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

She  was  breathing  hard  with  her  hurt. 

He  examined  her.  "Yes:  that  is  a  lie.  That  would  be 
a  reasonable  reason.  Too  reasonable  for  you.  I  could  re 
spect  that:  even  cooperate  with  it.  If  there  were  any 
chance  of  success."  For  an  instant,  he  had  tricked  her  into 
stirring  toward  him.  She  winced.  "You  can't  expect  me 
to  crucify  myself  and  David  for  your  vague  philanthropic 
folly." 

"No,  Tom— I  cannot." 

Then:  "Torn,  are  you  altogether  frank  with  me?  Do  you 
really  think  my  haunting  fears  are  due  to  a  selfish  cause?" 

"No,  Cornelia." 

"Do  you  think,  Tom — answer  me  on  your  honor — do  you 
think  they  are  really  vague  and  foolish?" 

Waiting  for  his  word,  as  he  stood  silent,  she  found  that 
she  wanted  him  so  to  think  them. 

His  answer  came:  "No.  They  are  not  foolish.  And  only 
we  are  vague  about  them." 

"Tom!"  .  .  . 

She  must  look  out.  She  was  so  weak  before  him.  She  was 
ever  so  near  to  dangerous  pleading.  She  straightened  her 
self  back. 

" but  since  we  are  so  vague,  Cornelia?  Necessarily  so. 

I  call  the  whole  discussion  nonsense." 

He  was  flippant  over  her  tragedy:  over  her  life.  He  was 
clear-eyed  admitting  it,  and  then  he  was  flippant!  He  stood 
nest  to  her  with  his  light  grace  and  she  hated  him.  For  he 
was  the  brother  whom  she  loved. 

He  went  and  did  not  for  a  long  time  come  back.  He  stayed 
away  too  long.  But  he  wrote  her  a  note: 

Dearest  Sister: 

In  accordance  with  my  promise,  I  have  urged  David  to  go 
and  see  you.  I  scolded  him  for  a  thoughtless  friend.  He  is 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  325 

thoughtless,  you  know.    I  have  found  that  out,  many  a  time, 
to  my  unhappiness. 

These  books  I  am  sending  you  I  have  just  read  this  year 
and  liked.  I  am  sure  you  will  like  them  also. 

Lots  of  love,  dearest  Sister,  and  good  fortune. 

TOM. 

How  sure  he  was  of  David!  How  sure  he  was  of  her.  She 
saw  that  he  loved  her  in  the  same  deep  confident  way  of 
the  younger  brother  whom  she  had  nursed  and  led.  The 
eternal  way.  She  had  unending  hurt  of  this.  For  how  could 
she  deny  the  call  of  his  love  through  his  little  note?  And 
how  could  she  answer  it?  She  was  torn.  She  knew  there 
was  now  a  reason  for  Tom's  staying  away.  She  wondered 
if  Tom  knew  how  he  tore  her.  But  if  he  had  written  her  coldly, 
cruelly,  would  it  have  been  less  cruel?  .  .  . 

Cornelia  found  herself  nursing  in  her  arms  a  life  that  she 
must  make  to  thrive  against  all  hazards:  the  little  life  of  a 
great  resolve.  She  looked  at  it,  and  gave  herself  up  to  it. 
Dimly  she  knew  that  if  she  held  it  close  enough,  and  warm, 
and  endless  against  her  breast,  it  would  gain  in  strength. 

David  must  be  saved! 

From  now  on,  she  went  about  with  it.  While  she  worked 
or  played — seldom  this  was — and  went  through  the  grimac- 
ings  of  a  social  creature;  while  she  slept — there  it  was  ever 
upon  her  breast:  that  David  must  be  saved! 

He  had  not  come  to  see  her. 

She  said  to  herself:  it  is  no  matter.  To  have  seen  him 
would  have  been  joy,  or  rather  ecstasy  so  packed  she  could 
for  many  days  have  had  her  joy  of  it.  It  was  no  matter. 
For  she  had  no  plan.  What  would  she  say  to  him,  or  do, 
when  he  came?  Let  him  stay  away  until  she  was  more  ready. 
It  was  bitter  to  know  he  had  not  come,  and  she  expecting 
him.  It  was  no  matter. 


326  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

Her  sleep  was  a  strange  thing.  No  real  dreams — streakings 
of  thought  and  dream  ran  through  her  night  like  falling 
flames.  So  that  her  night  was  neither  sleep  nor  waking.  It 
was  an  endless  trembling  between  two  worlds,  it  was  a  part 
of  Chaos.  She  lay  there  and  her  body  was  a  restless  weight 
holding  her  down.  She  was  like  a  little  boat  tossed  at  anchor 
by  a  broken  sea.  Her  body  and  her  consciousness:  these  were 
the  anchor.  They  kept  her  from  running  wild  with  the  waves. 
And  the  waves  kept  her  from  being  quiet  at  her  anchor.  She 
was  torn.  She  was  a  continuous  play  of  hindered  movement. 

When  the  day  came,  she  lay  there  wearied  as  if  she  had 
been  swept  by  a  great  fury. 

Her  nights  were  streaked  by  these  running  ribbons  of 
dream:  and  always  they  were  the  same  insofar  as  always  they 
were  really  nothing.  They  were  David.  Her  problems  in 
David.  Her  plans  and  her  helplessness  to  solve  them.  Never, 
even  in  her  sleep,  did  she  sink  to  some  quiet  haven  of  dream 
with  David:  have  him  there  to  talk  to  gently,  to  be  with 
gladly.  Something  surging  within  her  took  this  great  Wish 
and  cut  it  up  into  bloody  fragments  and  strewed  her  night 
with  them.  All  of  David  was  never  there:  nor  all  of  a  single 
moment  with  her  holding  his  head  on  her  breast.  David's 
laughter  or  David's  troubled  frown  or  David's  voice:  or 
merely  David's  name — David,  David,  David — falling  down 
her  night  like  drippings  of  blood.  And  she,  lost  in  this  welter 
of  struggle  between  wish  and  the  real,  unable  to  take  sides. 

There  was  no  rest  in  such  nights.  She  lay  in  her  narrow 
bed,  cast  up  in  her  cell-like  room  as  upon  some  rocky  shore. 
And  looking  back  upon  her  sleep,  she  had  a  sense  of  a  de 
lirious  underworld,  yellow  of  hue  with  veins  of  livid  red 
wriggling  athwart  it,  and  of  herself  who  followed  the  veins. 
It  was  a  shattered  and  scattered  self  that  had  been  thrown 
through  the  night,  thrown,  somehow  intact,  upon  the  shore 
of  the  morning. 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  327 

Like  a  bruised  woman,  she  was  out  of  her  bed.  She  placed 
the  coffee  on  the  gas-burner,  and  took  a  bath.  Cornelia  had 
no  pleasure  of  her  body.  Unclothing  herself,  she  did  not 
care  to  look  at  her  lean  nakedness.  It  was  as  if  she  had  feared 
to  find  great  bruises  upon  it.  She  laid  her  gaunt  hands  on 
her  breast  and  shivered,  for  it  was  cold  and  the  water  was 
none  too  hot  which  she  had  heated.  She  noticed  how  small 
were  her  breasts  and  that  they  had  begun  to  droop.  She 
remembered  that  once  they  had  been  beautiful  and  that  she 
had  been  tempted  to  ;;se  them  for  a  model ;  she  had  not  dared, 
since  then  people  would  look  on  them.  And  after  all,  they 
were  girl  breasts,  not  those  of  a  mother.  Now  they  were 
neither.  They  were  beginning  to  shrink  and  narrow  and 
droop.  They  were  becoming  the  breasts  of  a  woman  who  had 
not  lived.  Yet,  looking  at  them  now,  Cornelia  felt  no  sor 
row  or  regret.  She  took  this  fading  as  she  took  the  world — • 
the  world  outside  her.  She  was  outside  herself.  She  did 
not  care  if  her  breasts  were  no  longer  beautiful.  Who,  indeed, 
had  ever  seen  them?  What  good  had  she  had  of  their  beauty? 

She  stood  before  her  dresser  and  put  on  her  clothes.  She 
dressed  meticulously.  There  was  no  warmth  in  the  care 
with  which  she  braided  her  thin  hair  and  knotted  it  into  a 
Psyche  back  of  her  head.  What  was  her  hair  to  her?  There 
was  no  warmth  in  her  choice  among  her  waists  of  the  one 
she  would  wear  that  morning.  She  smoothed  the  loose  ends 
under  the  belt  and  tidied  the  little  linen  collar.  Her  hands 
were  fast  at  their  work.  They  did  not  fail:  also  they  did  not 
linger. 

Very  neatly,  Cornelia  spread  a  napkin  for  a  cloth  on  the 
table  and  placed  down  the  tray  and  proceeded  to  eat  her 
breakfast.  She  took  a  slice  of  bread  and  butter  and  an  egg, 
and  two  strong  cups  of  black  coffee.  She  loved  coffee.  It 
was  her  one  real  vice.  Lately  she  had  needed  it  more  than 


328  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

ever.  Night  gave  her  no  rest:  and  coffee  weakened  the  pall 
of  morning. 

She  cleared  away  her  dishes. 

There  was  her  work  before  her  and  it  was  time  to  be 
working. 

She  looked  at  the  little  huddle  of  clay  on  the  level  of  her 
head.  She  unwound  the  clinging  cloth.  She  knew  that  she 
was  bored.  It  was  nothing  but  a  huddle  of  dull  clay.  In  it 
was  lost  somewhere  the  head  of  a  boy.  It  was  her  task  to 
find  him,  to  bring  him  out,  so  she  could  go  on  when  her 
model  came.  She  found  she  did  not  care.  The  clay  and  the 
boy's  head  were  remote.  With  all  her  effort,  she  could  not 
bring  them  nearer.  She  looked  at  her  work  as  if  it  had  been 
the  work  of  another  person,  very  dim  and  weak,  and  very  far 
away.  She  saw  that  it  was  hopelessly  bad.  She  saw  that  Tom 
was  right.  He  did  not  take  her  Art  with  any  seriousness. 
That  did  not  matter.  Plenty  of  people  did.  She  had  won 
prizes.  She  was  on  Committees  of  Exhibition.  Last  year 
the  Metropolitan  Museum  had  bought  her  Dawn.  But  all  of 
this  was  wrong.  She  did  not  care.  She  knew!  She  knew 
her  Art  was  worthless.  Because  it  bored  her.  It  was  a  task. 
Ever  since  she  had  had  time  to  give  herself  to  it,  it  had  not 
deceived  her.  Ever  since  she  was  an  artist  she  had  known  she 
was  no  artist  at  all.  David  never  spoke  of  her  work.  It  meant 
nothing  to  him.  He  said  he  did  not  understand  such  matters. 
Nonsense!  She  remembered  his  childish  outburst  of  joy  at  a 
Chinese  vase  they  had  seen  one  day  in  a  shop-window  on 
Fifth  Avenue.  What  did  he  know  of  Chinese  vases?  Yet 
he  had  loved  it.  Had  he  once  captured  such  a  moment  from 
her  casts,  it  had  perhaps  been  different. 

How  strange  it  all  was,  what  an  ironic  time  of  it  the  world 
was  having  with  its  men  and  women!  She  had  yearned  to 
escape  in  order  to  be  an  artist.  She  had  left  home^  risked 
life.  She  and  Tom  slaved,  at  one  time  nearly  starved,  while 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  329. 

she  pursued  her  dream.  Here  she  was:  Cornelia  Rennard, 
Sculptress.  And  ashes  in  her  hand.  But  what  was  more  than 
strange:  she  did  not  seem  to  care.  It  all  seemed  natural 
enough.  Like  a  tale  whose  end  she  knew  and  whose  telling 
bored  her. 

Tom  was  right.  .  .  . 

She  found  she  had  unconsciously  redraped  the  wet  rag 
around  her  model.  She  thought  of  David.  The  resolve:  the 
resolve!  How  dimly  she  reacted  to  life  this  morning!  Not 
alone  this  morning.  She  had  never  thought  even  of  looking 
out  of  the  window.  Look!  it  was  snowing.  She  leaned  against 
the  window-seat.  The  snow  came  swirling,  merry,  through 
blue  air.  There  was  little  wind.  The  street  was  muffled  and 
passive:  strangely  quiet  street  under  the  merry  snow. 

David  might  have  come.  Did  he  hate  her?  she  wondered. 
She  was  importunate,  cloying  perhaps.  Young  blood  hates 
such  a  woman.  Almost  she  blamed  herself  for  the  fact  that 
her  nights  were  streaked  with  yearning  for  him. 

"But  he  does  not  know.  He  does  not  know.  I  have  not 
bothered  him  really.  .  .  ."  She  pleaded  with  him.  Let  her 
have  at  least  her  nights  of  broken  dreams,  her  days  broken 
with  worry. 

She  had  definitely  given  up  her  modeling  for  the  day,  she 
had  a  sense  of  relief. 

"Giulio  does  not  seem  to  be  coming  at  any  rate,"  she 
excused  herself.  She  went  on:  "If  he  comes,  I'll  pay  him 
and  send  him  off." 

Why  should  she  worry  about  work?  She  had  plenty  of 
money.  She  had  enough  left  over  from  last  year  to  take  her 
through  two  seasons.  She  spent  so  little. 

Her  relief  widened  and  deepened.  It  was  as  if  she  had 
found  for  herself  a  holiday.  Let  her  be  alone  with  her 
reveries  and  her  anguish.  Let  her  vegetate,  if  she  would,  or 
die.  Let  her  art  die,  at  any  rate.  Who  cared? 


330  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

As  she  went  musing  about,  she  hummed  a  broken  aria, 
from  Tristan.  Very  broken  since  all  now  that  came  from 
her  was  broken,  and  since,  besides,  she  had  no  ear  for  music. 
But  often  she  went  to  the  Opera — away  upstairs — and  lis 
tened  to  the  cloudy  and  clotted  passions  of  Richard  Wagner. 

Almost  unknown  to  herself  she  had  taken  a  pile  of  paper 
and  all  the  paraphernalia  of  water-color  from  a  drawer;  set 
it  out  on  the  table.  There  it  was!  She  looked  at  it  and 
smiled. 

"Oh,  you  lazy  one,"  she  said  half  aloud,  "what  an  escape 
from  your  real  work!  What  nonsense!"  Under  her  hand 
was  a  set  of  sheets  she  had  already  daubed.  A  new  foible, 
this:  which  she  never  more  than  half  allowed.  There  was 
much  of  her  father  in  Cornelia.  Her  sculpture  she  admitted: 
it  was  work.  These  blind,  wandering  daubs  were  play — were 
some  sort  of  dissipation — were  nonsense  and  wicked. 

This  morning  Cornelia  was  indulging  herself.  Giulio  had 
not  come.  Let  her  be  wicked.  It  was  no  worse  to  be  wicked 
than  to  be  a  wearied  artist.  So  she  spread  out  her  daubs  of 
water-color  and  examined  them.  And  they  were  unlike  the 
model  of  clay  in  this,  that  they  seemed  near  her;  she  let 
her  eyes  and  her  mind  wander  among  them  and  they  were 
very  near  herself. 

She  grasped  a  brush  and  wet  it  and  sat  down.  Something 
dim  came  over  her  eyes.  It  was  as  if  they  turned  inward. 
Cornelia  relaxed.  Her  breathing  came  more  like  the  natural 
ebb  and  flow  of  a  tide  within  her.  Her  head  and  neck  fell 
easily  forward.  She  had  the  sentiment  of  having  returned, 
sweetly  and  without  effort,  to  her  night.  It  was  like  the 
coming  to  a  loved  trysting  place.  She  was  once  more  with 
her  sleep,  streaked  in  shreddings  of  dream.  Her  brush  made 
strokes  on  paper.  .  .  . 

|     Suddenly,  whatever  this  was  she  painted  was  done.     For 
she  stopped.     She  left  her  night-world.     She  held  out  the 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  331 

sheet  at  arm's  length  and  tried  to  look  critically  at  what  she 
had  committed:  she  tried  to  laugh.  It  was  a  very  mad  and 
incomprehensible  design.  It  was  nonsense.  But  she  could 
not  laugh  at  it.  The  colors  were  somehow  lovely.  Of  course, 
color  was  not  everything. 

All  the  little  paintings  were  different,  yet  each  of  them  in 
some  mysterious  way  was  a  record  of  her  broken  nights. 
Each  of  them  had  come  to  being  while  her  mind  returned  to 
some  dim  hinterland,  and  found  her  nights,  and  brought  them 
back.  Swathes  of  color  passionate  against  a  brooding  back 
ground;  spirals  of  flame  in  space:  parabolas  of  red  and  gold 
and  green  dragging  a  fever  across  darkling  worlds  of  black 
and  gray.  In  all  of  them  was  a  phantasmagoria  of  design 
Cornelia  had  no  name  for:  but  could  not  wholly  reject.  They 
were  herself.  The  diary  of  her  passionate  anguish.  No  one 
would  ever  see  them.  Whom  did  they  hurt?  She  had  joyous 
rest  in  looking  at  them,  in  letting  herself  out  among  their  dis 
tances.  She  promised  herself  that  she  would  always  laugh 
at  them:  when  she  felt  a  little  stronger  and  her  fight  was 
won,  she  promised  herself  to  leave  them  and  return  to  her  Art. 

A  thought  came  sudden  from  the  outer  world. 

"Why,"  she  cried,  standing  up,  "it's  Thanksgiving  Day! 
No  wonder  Giulio  did  not  come." 

She  put  away  the  sheets  of  her  confessional. 

"I  must  have  a  walk.  Goodness!  I  nearly  forgot.  People 
are  coming  to  tea!" 

She  had  marketing  to  do.  The  stores  would  still  be  open 
in  the  morning.  She  trudged  through  the  bright  pink  snow: 
she  said  to  herself: 

"I  wonder  if  I  am  mad  making  these  mad  pictures.  They 
are  mad.  They  have  no  subjects  or  anything.  Well,  I  don't 
care.  Supposing  I  am  mad?  .  .  ." 

The  pink  snow  danced  lazy  through  blue  air.     The  City 


332  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

was  a  great  beast  snoring  with  snout  on  the  ground.  She 
pondered. 

"It  sometimes  seems  to  me  things  are  not  really  half  so 
clear  and  concise  as  we  artists  make  them.  I  wonder  if 
we  would  be  more  concise  painting  these  misty  moods.  .  .  ." 
She  saw  how  fluent  and  filmy  a  thing  was  the  snowing  City. 
People  passing  were  strokes  of  smudge  across  the  snow. 

"They  aren't  really  like  people  at  all — noses  and  limbs 
and  thoughts!" 

But  she  was  at  her  shop.  She  was  buying  chocolate  eclairs : 
very  clear  things,  these,  with  particular  prices.  Her  inspira 
tion  melted  in  the  sticky  air.  Cornelia  had  no  fingers  to 
grasp  these  luminous  moments  fleeting  across  her. 

As  she  came  back  a  little  cavalcade  of  ragamuffins  pranced 
and  begged  pennies.  She  gave  each  of  them  five  cents.  They 
danced  and  cavorted  in  the  snow.  Their  faces  were  running 
with  grease  and  paint.  The  boys  wore  women's  skirts  tucked 
high  under  their  armpits,  feathers  in  vast  broken  derbies 
abandoned  by  their  fathers.  The  girls  were  trim  in  trousers: 
their  little  buttocks  pointed  rakishly  back  under  their  flowing 
curls. 

"How  like  flowers  they  are,  in  the  snow/'  said  Cornelia  to 
herself.  "And  the  great  monster  City  with  his  snout  snoring 
away.  They'll  tickle  him  with  their  antics:  he'll  shake  himself 
and  snarl  and  swallow  them  up." 

The  mood  was  thinning.  Once  more  she  was  thinking  of 
David  and  of  the  tea  that  was  to  be  a  torture.  What  did  she 
want  of  friends?  What  did  she  have  to  give  them?  How, 
with  no  work  and  no  joy  in  her  heart,  was  she  ever  to  pass 
through  the  countless  hours  of  life?  .  .  . 

A  doctor  would  have  said  to  Cornelia:  "The  trouble  with 
you  is,  you  do  not  eat  enough." 

Thus  this  day,  when  Cornelia  was  once  more  in  her  room, 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  333 

she  was  too  tired  to  go  out  again  to  dine,  too  bored  to  cook 
a  dinner  for  herself. 

"I'll  eat  at  tea,"  she  explained  to  her  sense  of  unfitness. 
She  brewed  herself  a  cup  of  coffee.  That  was  easy. 

She  recalled  her  last  Thanksgiving.  She  and  Tom  went 
together  to  the  New  Jersey  heights  above  the  Hudson  River; 
they  dined  at  a  mushroom  farm.  What  a  jolly  jaunt — only 
a  year  ago!  The  last,  she  thought,  of  her  excursions  with 
Tom.  A  silent  rule  they  had  had  always  to  spend  their  holi 
days  together — a  rule  unbroken  for  twelve  years,  broken 
now  by  the  war  between  them  that  broke  all  things. 

She  sat  sipping  her  coffee,  and  wandered  over  the  frozen 
hills  where  their  feet  had  struck.  They  pitied  David  laugh 
ingly,  that  day.  As  so  often  on  set  occasions,  he  had  been 
gobbled  up  by  the  Deanes.  The  conventional  time,  they 
found,  for  not  counting  on  David  was  the  conventional  feast- 
day.  She  remembered  what  Tom  said:  "These  families  have 
so  little  imagination!  They  cannot  even  invite  a  chap  to 
dinner  except  on  a  public  holiday." 

Cornelia  thought  now  how  good  it  would  be  to  be  embraced 
in  some  convention:  however  stiff  it  was  it  would  be  warm  to 
be  shut  in  tight.  She  had  been  alone  the  Christmas  of  last 
year.  She  was  not  used  to  it.  Christmas  was  coming  again. 

She  made  herself  a  little  mound  of  cushions  on  her  couch 
and  settled  with  a  book.  It  was  a  silly  novel  some  one  had 
given  her.  There,  uncut,  was  the  package  of  books  in  the 
corner,  which  Tom  had  sent.  Something  kept  her  away 
from  them.  She  was  not  sure  what  shafts  Tom  might  thus 
unsheath  and  aim  at  her.  She  was  not  suspicious  but  indif 
ferent.  Her  mind  was  torpid.  They  must  be  heavy  books, 
She  would  have  to  work  to  understand  them. 

The  novel,  on  the  contrary,  did  not  make  demands  enough, 
It  was  the  story  of  a  Belle  of  Philadelphia,  loyal  to  the  Revo 
lution  during  the  British  Occupation.  It  was  very  plain  that 


334  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

the  lovely  American  was  to  win  valuable  secrets  of  war  from 
the  vicious  British  officer  who  loved  her:  would  give  them 
after  hazardous  adventure  to  Washington's  aide-de-camp  who 
was  her  true  love  and  so  help  win  the  war.  Sure  enough, 
there  she  was  galloping  the  dangerous  country  to  Valley  Forge. 
Cornelia's  mind  wandered  as  she  idly  turned  pages.  She  put 
down  the  book.  Her  mind  was  a  weary  woman  stumbling 
with  dead  feet  across  the  snow.  She  ached.  The  snow  had 
stopped.  A  gentle  pall  came  in  from  the  muffled  world.  The 
elevated  trains  were  a  memory,  life  stirred  like  a  larval  city 
hidden  from  her  eyes.  She  lay  in  a  blue  night,  and  the  name 
of  David  fell  across  her  night  in  livid  snow.  The  name  of 
David  and  the  eyes  of  David  and  the  thoughts  of  him,  cutting 
her  face  and  melting.  Cornelia  was  on  horseback,  although 
she  could  not  see  her  horse;  she  was  hurrying  to  Valley  Forge 
with  an  important  secret.  Her  horse  stumbled:  he  was  for 
ever  turning,  forever  turning  back.  He  was  trying  to  carry 
her  into  the  snare  of  the  British  officer.  The  officer  was  a 
short,  slim  man,  he  was  Tom.  Cornelia  was  lifted  up.  Her 
eyes  seemed  to  peer  through  a  viscous  film  and  part  it.  She 
lay  there  prostrate,  now,  and  conscious,  neither  asleep  nor 
awake;  she  felt  the  weariness  within  her  body  and  the  great 
strain  of  how  she  lay,  like  a  wrack  upon  her.  She  was  tired, 
tired!  Could  she  not  sleep?  Could  she  not  have  rest?  Let 
her  but  stretch  out  and  relax  and  fall  away,  deeper  down 
where  the  hectic  grays  were  black. 

She  remained  as  she  was.  She  felt  that  she  was  tied  in  a 
hard  knot.  She  was  caught  in  the  vice  of  her  nerves.  She 
could  not  swing  herself  free:  she  could  not  hold  herself  fast. 
She  lay  there  and  suffered.  Though  she  was  half  asleep,  she 
could  feel  her  energy  fall  away  in  her  strain,  and  her  thoughts 
bound  and  strike  her  like  iron  balls. 

When  it  was  time,  she  got  up  and  prepared  the  tea  things. 

The  day  was  low  and  away.    Where  had  it  gone?    It  seemed 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  335 

to  have  left  her  behind.  She  had  the  haunted  instinct  of 
having  been  abandoned.  Looking  back  on  the  day,  it  seemed 
a  vivid  thing,  swift  and  heavy  with  laughter  and  paint- 
smudged  children:  it  had  rolled  over  her  body  and  left  her  be 
hind.  She  was  bruised  by  its  passage.  Day  of  Thanksgiving! 
.  .  .  And  here  about  her  now,  where  the  Day  had  been,  a 
void  gray  like  her  sleep:  within  it  just  such  scant  scatter  of 
life — herself. 

Each  little  thing  that  stirred — a  teacup  against  a  saucer, 
the  tick  of  the  clock — had  a  thousand  jagged  echoes. 

The  bell  rang.    It  jangled  against  her  nerves. 

Cornelia  gripped  herself.  She  had  a  sense  of  her  head 
careening. 

The  door  opened.     She  went  forward  and  smiled. 

A  stately  woman  with  a  gentle  face  came  in,  behind  her  a 
little  dapper  man.  She  kissed  Cornelia.  Seeing  Cornelia 
she  stood  on  the  threshold  of  some  passionate  understanding. 
But  her  husband  broke  the  warming  silence.  He  ran  about 
the  room  and  chattered.  He  was  very  gay.  Cornelia  smiled 
wanly  at  him. 

It  was  Sylvain  Purze,  maker  of  fashionable  portraits:  and 
his  wife,  maker  of  Sylvain  Purze. 

They  sat,  the  two  women  sheathed  themselves  up,  so  the 
little  man  should  not  be  hurt  with  any  truths.  Mrs.  Purze 
was  a  woman  bathed  in  a  sweet  melancholy.  Her  fine  features 
were  a  little  vague  under  the  dawn  of  her  gold  hair. 

"What  a  jolly  place  you  have  here,  you  know,  Miss  Ren- 
nard!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Purze.  "How  I  envy  you  your  sim 
plicity.  Ah,  me!"  He  sighed,  thinking  with  satisfaction  of 
his  luxurious  studio  on  Gramercy  Park.  "When  you're  mar 
ried "  he  intimated  treacherously.  But  his  wife  did  not 

mind.  She  knew  Cornelia's  opinion  of  her  husband's  talk. 
She  knew  her  own.  The  trouble  was  precisely  that  her  hus 
band  had  never  given  her  the  excuse  to  leave  him. 


336  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

Cornelia's  mind  was  a  twilight  swept  clear  of  the  mists  of 
the  sun.  Each  nerve  stood  out  alone,  and  took  its  toll  of  its 
surroundings.  The  bell  jangled  again. 

A  young  girl  came  in,  diffident,  spring-like;  before  a  tall 
dark  man  with  head  thrust  stiffly  back,  so  that  he  seemed  to 
be  leaning  in  the  direction  contrary  to  his  coming. 

Cornelia  greeted  her  with  real  pleasure.  Cornelia's  sud 
den  brightness  was  like  a  pitiful  flower  budding  above  strewn 
ashes. 

"Helen!  I  am  so  glad  you  thought  of  coming.  And  this 
is  Doctor  Westerling?"  She  shook  his  hand  silently.  "I 
have  heard  of  you."  She  was  not  interested  really.  She 
introduced  them. 

"Miss  Helen  Daindrie.  .  .  ." 

She  had  expected  the  Furzes  only.  No  one  else  would  come. 
The  little  party  caught  from  the  hostess  the  sense  of  its  com 
pletion.  It  threw  out  its  arms  and  wove  a  comfortable  net 
about  itself.  It  settled  down. 

The  talk  ran  easy  and  subdued:  a  sluggish  circulation 
within  this  temporary  creature.  Mr.  Purze  was  suave  with 
words.  His  wife  had  a  poise  that  cradled  all  the  room  and 
gave  the  creature  rest.  Dr.  Westerling  was  taciturn:  but  he 
was  intense  in  listening.  He  was  a  pleasure  to  Mr.  Purze. 
And  Helen  Daindrie  sat  there  sweetly,  neither  talkative'  nor 
silent.  Cornelia  had  no  need  to  exert  herself.  The  party 
would  be  an  easy  one.  It  would  live  and  come  to  a  good  end. 
She  found  herself  looking  more  and  more  at  Miss  Daindrie, 
drawn  to  her  by  a  fascination  bitter-sweet.  She  wondered 
why.  She  asked  her  senses.  They  were  clear  in  their  re 
ports  like  bells. 

She  was  a  little  woman — half  girl,  not  more  than  twenty- 
two.  She  was  rather  plump,  but  gently  so  and  with  grace. 
It  was  a  quality,  invisible  like  perfume,  that  came  from  her. 
Under  her  prettiness  a  sturdy  note.  She  must  be  capable. 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  337 

Her  eyes  were  a  light  blue:  Cornelia  saw  them  in  the  candles 
she  had  lighted:  but  her  mouth  was  straight,  long,  even,  and 
her  chin  had  strength  in  its  womanly  rondure.  Looking  at 
her,  Cornelia  felt  the  great  good  health  of  this  woman. 

Her  career  told  something,  but  what  Cornelia's  sharpened 
nerves  now  gave  her  told  more  in  an  instant.  Miss  Daindrie 
was  a  college  graduate,  and  a  student  in  medicine.  She  was 
going  to  employ  her  science  not  in  practice  but  in  expert  work 
among  the  children  and  mothers  of  the  City.  This  sounded 
serious  almost  to  forbidding.  But  the  girl,  sitting  quiet  and 
drinking  her  tea  with  a  sober  head,  as  if  this  were  a  meal,  not 
a  convention,  was  different  from  her  work.  She  was  at  once 
lovely  with  youth  and  indestructibly  firm  with  a  quaint 
mother-sense.  Her  stalwartness  was  about  her  girlhood,  pro 
tecting  it,  as  her  strong  full  body  was  about  the  dance  of  her 
eyes. 

Cornelia  mused  away.  .  .  .  She  need  not  worry  about  her 
guests.  Mr.  Purze  had  aroused  Doctor  Westerling  to  talk. 
He  was  saying  serious  things  about  the  advance  of  Science 
in  America,  as  compared  to  Europe.  He  had  spent  four  years 
in  Paris,  Vienna,  Berlin.  It  was  plain  he  knew.  Whatever 
he  said  he  knew.  He  had  taken  up  Mr.  Purze's  challenge, 
"We  are  children  in  art,"  as  one  would  take  up  a  problem  to 
be  answered. 

"In  America,37  he  said,  "our  art  is  Science." 

Cornelia  watched  him  detachedly.  He  was  talking  really 
to  impress  Miss  Daindrie.  There  was  a  caress  in  his  voice 
as  he  said  Science.  What  did  it  mean  to  him,  that  had  a 
body  and  soul?  He  loved  Miss  Daindrie. 

Did  she  love  him?  No.  Would  she?  Cornelia  leaned  back 
in  her  chair. 

For  the  first  time,  she  noticed  the  tilt  of  Miss  Daindrie's 
head  on  her  lovely  neck:  the  whimsical  curve  of  the  cheek 
bone  and  the  clear,  almost  protrusive  outline  of  the  jaw. 


338  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

There  must  be  something  Irish  about  her.  Her  father— 
Judson  Daindrie — he  was  Scotch.  .  .  .  Doubtless  her  mother. 
Also  there  was  something  romantic.  A  pinch  of  romance, 
like  a  pinch  of  explosive  powTder.  She  was  steady:  her  thrust 
in  life  was  sure  and  long.  This  was  one  reason  why  the 
assertive  and  uncertain  Doctor  loved  her.  But  in  order  to 
set  her  off,  that  pinch  of  powder.  Did  the  Jewish  scholar, 
exact  and  intransigent,  hold  the  needed  spark?  Cornelia 
thought  not.  How  those  blue  eyes  could  gleam!  Could  they 
gleam  for  him?  Of  course,  she  pondered,  she  might  marry 
him,  unlighted.  He  must  have  a  pounding,  indefatigable 
way.  Look  at  him  driving  his  point  into  Mr.  Purze  who  was 
really  not  so  very  concerned.  Yes:  she  might  marry  him. 
If  no  one  else  touched  off  the  powder.  If  she  remained  un 
aware  of  it.  She  might  go  unmellowed  through  life,  unfer 
tilized.  Such  things  happened.  It  would  be  a  pity.  .  .  . 

The  talk  was  animated  now.  The  party  bloomed  to  its 
fullest  life.  Miss  Daindrie  was  curiously  self-conscious  about 
Dr.  Westerling's  oration.  She  was  teasing  him.  How  steady 
she  was,  for  one  with  a  perfume  so  diffident  and  sweet!  He 
did  not  like  her  jests.  His  mind  sensed  only  dully  what  they 
meant:  sharply  what  she  meant  behind  them.  For  some  rea 
son,  a  rebuke.  He  bore  it.  He  was  used  to  battle,  and  to 
resistance.  He  was  used  to  rebukes.  But  he  was  uneasy. 
The  cruder  lists  of  argument  and  quarrel  were  more  to  his 
measure.  It  seemed  to  him  that  this  Mr.  Purze,  if  he  was  an 
artist,  needed  a  lot  of  informing. 

"We  have  here  a  tendency,"  he  found  the  need  of  explain 
ing  his  debate  to  Miss  Daindrie,  " to  misjudge  America 

by  overlooking  what  America  excels  in,  and  wishing  in  oun 
hearts  she  were  merely  another  Europe." 

Mr.  Purze  was  suddenly  agreeing.  He  saved  the  Doctor 
from  another  teasing.  He  was  nothing,  if  not  a  soother  of 
self-important  people.  He  was  marvelously  informed  in  the 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  ,339 


prerequisites  of  his  art  of  portraiture.     He  knew  who 
terling  was.    Not  rich,  but  already  an  emerging  figure  at  the 
great  Magnum  Institute.     Great  men  saf  for  portraits. 

Westerling  discoursed  on  the  need  of  a  new  critical  scien 
tific  standard  in  Art.  Did  not  Mr.  Purze  agree?  Oh?  indeed. 
It  was  nonsense,  was  it  not?  to  say  that  values  in  beauty  could 
not  be  determined  like  any  other  element  in  a  material  solu 
tion.  Painting  was  a  chemical  solution.  Music  and  poetry 
were  physical  solutions:  sound  waves  illustrative  of  certain 
documentary  matter  which  of  course  was  open  to  intellectual 
appraisal.  .  .  .  Ke  was  very  interested  in  that. 

"I  was  invited  sometime  ago  to  a  private  recital  of  Lahl- 
berg.  You  know  —  that  Russian  pianist.  He  played  many 
of  his  own  compositions.  I  asked  him  to  state  to  me  in 
scientific  terms  what  his  music  meant:  why,  for  instance,  he 
used  seconds  and  sevenths  where  Chopin  employed  thirds 
and  fifths.  He  was  quite  dumb,  I  assure  you.  I  needed  no 
further  proof  of  what  I  had  already  expected  -  "  the  Doctor 
had  meant  to  say  "suspected"  —  :  "the  man  is  a  clever  charla 
tan." 

"But  he  plays  so  beautifully,"  pleaded  Mrs.  Purze. 

"We  cannot  trust  uneducated  senses  any  more  than  we 
can  uneducated  people." 

"No,"  decided  Cornelia  in  herself,  "this  is  not  what  she 
wants." 

She  had  been  watching  Helen  Daindrie  with  a  growing 
singleness  of  interest.  She  saw  how  the  girl's  body  faintly 
stiffened  when  the  Doctor  spoke.  She  was  aware  of  the  im 
plied  direction,  of  the  source  of  the  heat  of  his  words:  she 
was  attentive,  she  was  respectful  and  impressed.  And  yet, 
Cornelia  felt  a  specific  turning  away  in  the  young  girl's  mind, 
a  wavering  of  interest,  almost  a  recoil  and  a  revolt  from  this 
intellectual  tribute.  He  did  not  really  hold  her.  When  she 
wandered,  Cornelia  saw  her  relax.  Now,  during  these  last 


340  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

long  words,  suddenly  Miss  Daindrie  turned  and  met  Cornelia's 
eyes.  In  them  a  twinkle  of  disdain,  a  gladness  to  be  looking 
away. 

"Have  you  heard  Lahlberg?"  Cornelia  asked  her.  Dr. 
Westerling  still  talked. 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  care  for  him?" 

"I  think  he  is  very  wonderful,"  said  Miss  Daindrie.  In 
her  remark  there  was  specific  rebellion  against  what  Dr. 
Westerling  was  saying.  Cornelia  noticed.  It  proved  to  her 
that  there  was  danger  after  all  of  the  Doctor's  winning.  .  .  . 

Suddenly,  she  said  to  herself:  "Why  do  I  care?" 

She  had  been  watching  Miss  Daindrie.  Now,  for  the  first 
time,  she  watched  herself  to  know  why  she  was  watching. 

As  she  went  groping,  she  understood. 

For  a  long  time  she  had  walked  through  a  dark  cave  with 
a  lantern,  placing  it  against  the  dripping  walls,  seeking  a  cer 
tain  thing.  .  .  .  Sudden,  there  was  her  lantern  against  it, 
what  she  sought! — and  she  recoiled,  she  withdrew  her  light, 
she  did  not  want  to  see.  .  .  .  With  her  body  strained  and  her 
nerves  singing  against  the  pull  of  her  will,  she  lifted  her  light 
again,  she  forced  herself  to  look. 

She  felt  it  ...  in  her  heart  she  could  have  no  doubt  of 
it.  ...  Helen  Daindrie  was  meant  to  make  the  rescue  of 
David! 

How  clear  it  was,  terribly  clear.  The  one  way!  She 
wondered  by  what  painful  blessing  she  had  not  seen  before. 
She  knew  that  she  had  seen  and  had  not  wanted  to  see  it. 
It  was  too  bitter,  too  cruel.  Unfair!  How  could  she  stand 
this,  who  was  willing  to  bear  all  things?  This  giving  David 
into  the  arms  of  another  woman?  How  could  she  be  sure? 
How  dared  she?  Reasons  had  tumbled  upon  her:  knowing 
was  blotted  out.  Now,  what  had  been  dim  was  clear:  what 
had  been  so  hard,  seemed  strangely  natural  and  easy. 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  341 

She  looked  at  Helen.  She  felt  her  presence.  Never  had 
she  so  felt  a  life  before.  Helen  was  lovely  and  girlish  and 
strong.  She  would  lead  David  the  way  of  his  dreams,  the  way 
of  his  young  gods — they  must  be  her  gods  also!  She  would 
lead  him  firmly.  Her  sense  of  right  was  clear  like  her  blue 
eyes.  Feeling  her  there,  Cornelia  loved  Helen  Daindrie.  Her* 
heart  went  out  to  her,  her  hands  pleaded  to  embrace  her. 
She  seemed  to  hold  her  face  in  her  trembling  hands  and  to 
look  deep  in  Helen.  Yes:  she  was  lovely,  for  she  was  to  be 
the  beloved.  She  was  sacred,  for  it  was  she  who  was  chosen. 

Tom's  hold  would  fall  away  when  once  David  turned  and 
wanted  to  move  toward  Helen. 

"Bless  j/ou!"  her  eyes  said,  "God  bless  you.  And  do  as  I 
want.  And  love  him  as  he  deserves." 

How  very  certain  it  all  seemed  to  Cornelia!  There  sat 
Helen  Daindrie,  talking,  smiling,  frowning  a  little  perhaps, 
and  nothing  had  been  said.  Nothing  had  happened.  Yet 
Cornelia  was  sure  that  this  girl  would  win  David's  love,  and 
win  him  from  Tom  and  save  him.  .  .  .  Win  him  forever  from 
herself. 

So  let  it  be.  There  was  no  bitterness  in  her  heart.  No  hurt, 
it  seemed.  For  all  of  her  was  the  fullness  of  her  hurt.  Her 
hurt  was  about  her,  surrounding  her  like  air.  Without  it,  she 
must  have  stifled. 

She  wanted  to  get  up  and  take  Helen's  hand  and  kiss  it. 
She  was  her  David,  looking  at  this  woman.  She  wanted  to 
kiss  Helen's  eyes  and  tell  them  what  it  was  they  would  soon 
see.  She  forgot  the  Doctor.  She  no  longer  saw  him.  So  sure 
she  was. 

She  sat  there,  full  of  her  vision.  "Nothing  has  happened. 
They  need  never  meet — unless  you  force  it,"  was  a  faint  whis 
per  she  had  no  ears  for.  She  must  go  on  in  this  greater  ecstasy 
than  she  had  ever  known.  She  must  make  her  vision  live. 
Who  was  she — Cornelia,  or  David?  or  was  she  this  sweet 


342  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

fresh  girl  with  the  loyal  eyes?  A  great  faint  ease  moved 
through  all  her  body,  as  if  she  were  bleeding  to  death. 

She  had  no  words  to  say  to  Helen,  nor  to  herself.  She 
longed  only  to  touch  her  hair,  kiss  her  eyes.  David  was  to 
touch  and  to  kiss  them!  Her  nerves,  that  had  been  taut  and 
clear  in  the  drunkenness  of  fasting,  slumbered  now  as  if  they 
had  feasted.  Her  eyes  were  dim  and  saw  no  further  thing. 
She  was  indeed  swathed  warm  and  happy,  like  one  bleeding 
away  and  bathed  in  her  own  blood. 

But  nothing  happened.  She  had  no  further  sense  of  the 
room  save  that  it  held  her  up:  nor  of  the  easy  talk  save  that 
her  knowledge  of  it  let  her  float  slumberously,  in  the  sea  of 
her  blood. 

All  her  blood  was  outside  her.  It  was  no  longer  a  beating 
surge  within  the  pent  walls  of  her  soul.  She  was  emptied 
of  desire  and  of  pain. 

She  felt  that  something  was  to  happen:  there  would  come 
some  proof  to  her  vision.  She  would  look  upon  it  sweetly  as 
upon  her  death. 

She  awaited  her  death.     She  was  smiling. 

The  bell  rang.    The  door  opened.    David  came  in.  ... 


XIV 


DAVID  had  long  intended  to  see  Cornelia.  Tom  re 
minded  him  more  than  once:  reminded  him  perhaps  a 
bit  too  often.  There  was  a  stubborn  touch  in  David. 
Something  within  him  seemed  to  resist  his  going,  and  even  he 
knew  moodily  that  the  something  was  kin  to  Tom's  insistence. 
He  had  a  way  of  sallying  forth  on  a  Sunday  afternoon,  re 
solved  to  walk  an  hour  and  then  go  to  her  place:  and  of  for 
getting.  Until  it  was  too  late.  He  would  say:  "Next  time 
I  will  not  forget. "  At  last  the  "next  time"  came  to  be 
Thanksgiving. 

He  dined  with  the  Deanes.  He  had  no  plans  at  all  for 
after  dinner.  The  dinner  would  be  big,  he  lazy.  If  his 
uncle  offered  him  a  cigar  and  Lois  was  amiable,  he  might  sit 
around  all  afternoon.  He  did  not  much  care.  But  his  uncle 
had  his  erratic  ways:  in  and  out  of  business,  one  never  could 
tell  about  him.  Doubtless  the  moody  angles  of  Lois  were 
due  to  her  father.  Sometimes  he  would  treat  him  as  a  man: 

"Have  a  cigar,  sir?"  David  accepted  and  liked  this.  More 
over  the  effect  of  a  cigar  was  always  to  make  him  heavy 
and  sleepy:  unfit  either  for  walking  or  a  visit:  in  no  heroic 
mood  for  visiting  a  friend  toward  whom  his  sense  of  guilt 
made  him  uncomfortable. 

Then  again,  his  uncle  would  light  his  own  cigar  and  forget 
him;  perhaps  even  say: 

"Well,  children,  I  am  going  to  take  a  nap.  .  .  .  Run  along." 
He  napped  on  the  dining-room  sofa. 

This  happened  on  Thanksgiving. 

Lois  was  somber.  David  knew  that  her  engagement — it 

343  ' 


344  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

had  never  been  more  than  a  casual  trial — was  broken.  Once 
more  she  was  in  the  open  field.  And  more  cynical,  more 
difficult  than  ever.  She  had  been  spiteful,  it  seemed  to  David, 
on  this  Feast  of  Thanksgiving.  For  the  first  time  in  a  rare 
long  stretch,  he  had  almost  preferred  the  flinty  steadiness  of 
her  sister.  Lois  had  nothing  to  say  to  him,  to  do  with  him. 
When  she  spoke,  she  managed  an  air  of  objective  and  dis 
dainful  interest  that  was  worse  than  indifference.  As  if  she 
were  thinking:  "What  can  this  specimen  possibly  have  to 
say?"  After  dinner,  she  struck  out  her  hand  and  smiled 
formally  into  his  face: 

"Good-by,  David:  I  have  a  date  and  it's  late.  Can  I 
drop  you  somewhere?" 

He  spurned  her  offer.  He  found  himself  out  of  the  house, 
it  was  still  snowing.  He  had  a  sentimental  turn  over  the 
snow  and  his  loneliness,  his  being  turned  out  lonely  into  the 
snow. 

He  began  to  trudge  and  to  enjoy  the  walk.  He  had  had  no 
cigar.  He  was  clear-headed.  The  snow  ceased,  the  air  of 
the  darkling  City  was  soft  like  the  touch  of  silk.  He  trudged 
for  several  hours.  Five  blocks  from  her  house,  the  summons 
came  to  Cornelia. 

He  hated  the  Deanes  that  afternoon.  It  was  an  old  track 
in  his  brain  that  led  him  now  from  them  to  Cornelia,  as  his 
old  revolts  had  led  him  three  years  before.  True,  Mrs.  Deane 
had  said  to  him:  "You  can  stay,  dear,  if  you  want  and  enter 
tain  me"  True,  the  thought  came  that  this  might  have  been 
more  comfortable  after  all.  He  did  not  want  to  go  home. 
Tom  had  a  way  of  wreathing  their  room  in  smoke  and  cynical 
smiles  on  holidays.  It  was  plain  that  the  time  had  come  to 
go  as  his  feet  now  took  him.  .  .  . 

At  the  tea,  nothing  visible  had  occurred.  Cornelia  was 
behind  her  guests.  Far  away:  pleasantly  so,  since  if  she  held 
a  rebuke  for  him  it  was  far  away  also.  There  had  been  a 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  345 

girl  with  a  sweet  voice.  He  did  not  recall  her  face.  He  had 
come  late,  left  early. 

Now  a  note  from  Cornelia.  She  had  scarcely  seen  him  on 
Thanksgiving.  She  wanted  to  see  him.  Would  he  come  the 
following  Sunday  to  tea? 

He  was  there,  she  was  not  alone.  This  was  rather  strange, 
thought  David.  Evidently  she  was  not  so  anxious  after  all 
to  see  him  really.  He  had  exaggerated  her  feeling.  Doubtless 
she  did  not  care  enough  to  have  a  rebuke  for  him.  At  least 
he  could  not  detect  it.  It  was  a  pleasant  afternoon.  With 
Cornelia  was  a  girl — "my  dear  friend,"  she  called  her — Miss 
Helen  Daindrie.  A  very  sweet  girl,  thought  David.  Rather 
distant. 

"You  funny  person!'7  she  said  to  him.  "Why  didn't  you 
offer  to  take  Miss  Daindrie  home?" 

"I  thought  I'd  like  to  see  you  alone,  for  a  minute." 

"Nonsense!  You  know  you'd  have  preferred  escorting 
her." 

"Well — is  it  right — at  a  casual  tea — the  first  time  you  meet 
a  person?" 

"The  first  time!  Why,  David!  You  met  Miss  Daindrie  on 
Thanksgiving." 

"Oh,  did  I?" 

She  was  looking  at  him  with  a  cloudy  reserve  on  her  eyes  he 
could  not  understand.  Why  should  she  be  offended,  if  he 
did  not  remember  Miss  Daindrie?  Did  Cornelia  love  her 
so  much? 

"Now,  run  along."    She  almost  put  him  out. 

He  thought  her  strangely  cavalier  and  distant.  He  enjoyed 
her.  For  the  first  time,  in  long,  he  did  not  find  Cornelia 
cloying.  There  had  been  none  of  the  warm  discomfort. 

He  was  glad  to  come  again.  He  was  glad,  now,  in  his 
supine  state,  when  he  was  lifted  in  any  way  from  his  com 
fortless  closeness  with  Tom. 


346  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

It  was  a  little  party.  Cornelia  entertained  quite  often.  She 
had  always  said,  in  the  old  days:  "David,  I  do  not  invite  you. 
What  should  you  do  with  all  these  stupid  people? — stupid 
and  self-important.  When  I  see  you,  David  dear,  I  want 
you!'  w*  «-  \ 

Now,  how  different  was  Cornelia,  how  light  and  easy  to  get 
on  with!  David  began  to  question,  should  he  really  want  to 
see  her  alone,  could  he  succeed?  He  came  to  just  such  a  party 
of  self-important  people,  nondescripts  of  whom  he  had  met 
.none  before,  with  their  endless  chatter  about  remote,  allusive 
topics,  and  wished  to  see  none  ever  again.  It  was  almost 
like  meeting  an  old  friend  to  find  Miss  Daindrie  there.  He 
reckoned  that  she  and  Cornelia  must  be  fast  friends.  She 
was  strange.  Each  time  he  met  her  she  seemed  to  him  so 
different  he  could  not  be  sure  he  had  met  her  before.  He 
talked  with  her  a  great  deal  that  evening. 

Cornelia  said:  "There  is  only  one  person  here  you  could 
possibly  be  interested  in.  Don't  mind  being  selfish,  dear.  De 
vote  yourself  to  her.  I'll  manage  the  others." 

He  did.    He  scarcely  spoke  with  Cornelia. 

A  pause  of  several  ordinary  weeks:  a  visit  to  the  Magnum 
Institute. 

"Would  you  like  to  see  the  great  laboratories  and  the  hos 
pital?"  Cornelia  wrote  him.  "Doctor  Westerling  said  I 
might  come,  and  bring  a  friend." 

David  escorted  her.  They  went  through  a  long,  high  room, 
cold  and  metallic  and  full  of  corrodent  odors.  It  was  painful 
to  David.  He  felt  that  he  was  being  cut  by  a  very  sharp 
steel  blade,  so  that  there  was  no  pain,  and  yet  it  was  painful. 
Miss  Daindrie  was  there  in  a  white  apron  and  a  white  stiff 
blouse.  It*  seemed  to  David  that  the  hard  starched,  linen  must 
cut  into  her  softness.  His  teeth  were  a  bit  on  edge,  and  he 
was  afraid  to  look  too  close  at  the  acids  and  the  test-tubes 
full  of  evil  germs  and  "the  smears  of  blood.  The  Doctor  ex- 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  347 

plained  a  culture  of  gelatine  in  which  grew  billions  of  organ 
isms  and  over  which  Miss  Daindrie  pored  as  over  a  cradle. 
This  brought  nausea  to  David.  He  knew  he  was  silly.  "I 
would  not  want  to  be  a  doctor/'  he  whispered  to  Cornelia. 
He  saw  that  she  too  was  in  pain  in  this  chill  temple  of 
science. 

What  held  him  most  was  that  Miss  Daindrie  had  no  eyes 
for  him  at  all.  She  followed  the  white-aproned  Doctor  in  rapt 
submission.  And  Doctor  Westerling,  David  was  sure,  did 
not  like  him.  He  looked  quizzically  at  David's  wandering 
attention. 

He  said  to  him:  "You  are  not  interested,  I  guess,  in  medi 
cine — except  when  you  have  a  stomach-ache?" 

"No,"  David  answered  seriously.  "Isn't  that  the  one 
time  when  I  should  be  interested?" 

For  a  moment  Doctor  Westerling  appeared'  to  like  him.  His 
eyes  widened,  took  David  in  as  if  with  the  help  of  a  new 
light.  He  began  nodding.  "Why!  You  are  right."  He 
laughed.  Miss  Daindrie  came  up. 

"What  contribution  did  you  make,  Mr.  Markand,  to  medical 
science?" 

David  was  sure  the  Doctor  stopped  liking  him  at  once. 

Their  meetings  were  casual  but  they  were  not  infrequent. 
Miss  Daindrie,  he  thought,  must  be  a  remarkable  woman. 
For  she  was  always  affable  to  him;  and  always  knew  what  he 
had  said  last  time.  Yet,  her  mind  must  be  replete  with  sig 
nificant  affairs.  How  could  he  doubt  through  it  all  her  strict 
inaccessibility? 

One  day,  she  said  to  him:  "Why  don't  you  come  and  see 
me  some  evening,  Mr.  Markand?" — and  laughed. 

"Why  do  you  laugh?" 

"I  almost  feel  you  have  vowed  you  would  never  ask  of  your 
own  accord." 

She  was  full  of  assurance,  and  of  a  sweet  timidity.     It 


348  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

seemed  to  David  she  was  so  high  above  him  she  could  fulfill 
whatever  whim  she  wanted  and  lose  not  one  jot  of  her  stature. 
Such  a  whim,  doubtless,  was  this. 

"Oh,  I  should  love  to  come.  ...  I  didn't — I  didn't  real 
ly "  he  stopped.  "Do  you  really  want  me  to  come,  Miss 

Daindrie?" 

She  saw  that  he  was  serious.    "Why  should  I  ask  you?" 

That  was  convincing.  "I  don't  see,"  he  said,  "what  you 
could  possibly  find  of  interest  in  me." 

It  was  the  beginning  of  the  impulse  he  was  always  to  have 
with  her  to  speak  out  his  mind. 

She  answered  him  seriously  too. 

"I  want  tovfind  out,  perhaps,"  she  said. 

They  were  in  a  box  at  a  theater.  It  was  a  special  matinee 
of  a  comedy  by  Bernard  Shaw:  a  strange  new  genius  out  of 
Ireland.  Cornelia  and  Miss  Daindrie  had  arranged  the  party. 

"Shaw  deserves  to  be  supported,"  Cornelia  explained;  even 
Tom  had  been  willing  to  come. 

She  heard  every  word  that  passed  between  David  and  Miss 
Daindrie.  Her  neighbor  in  the  Box  was  a  young  man  she 
had  never  met  before.  He  found  her  strangely  distracted  be 
tween  the  curtains.  He  said  to  her:  "But  after  all,  Miss 
R.ennard,  what  are  we  to  think  of  this  man  Shaw?"  She 
answered,  vigorously  nodding:  "Yes,  indeed."  David  was 
going  to  call?  What  a  stubborn  child  he  had  been!  A  good 
sign,  deeply.  She  believed  she  could  see.  Unknown  to  him 
self,  he  was  struggling  against  Helen.  He  had  an  assured, 
comradeful  way  with  women — the  way  of  a  boy:  it  was  gone. 
A  visit  to  a  girl  might  mean  nothing.  After  these  resistances 
and  the  silence  behind  their  questionings  as  they  looked  at 
each  other,  he  might  well  ask  Why  she  wanted  him  to  come. 
It  was  a  bit  disconcerting  for  the  young  man  beside  Cornelia. 

When  she  was  back  in  her  room,  Cornelia  threw  herself 
on  her  couch  and  cried.  What  a  great  Victory  she  had  won! 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  349 

David  went  about,  filled  with  a  new  humility,  a  growing 
hatred  of  himself. 

Nearly  two  years  it  was  since  he  had  seen  in  a  street-car 
a  small  girl,  and  walked  through  a  world  suddenly  shriveled. 
What  after  that?  He  too  had  shrunken  and  grown  like  the 
world,  so  that  once  more  the  world  seemed  right  for  him. 
Now  another  change.  The  world  was  gone  altogether.  None 
of  its  tortured  standards  near  him  any  more  to  measure 
him  and  call  what  he  was  good.  He  stood  naked  in  a  sort 
of  psychic  space:  he  saw  how  soft,  how  idle,  how  small  was 
his  soul.  It  came  to  David  how  he  hated  himself,  and  how  he 
was  so  full  of  this  defeat  upon  him,  that  he  could  love  no 
person  and  could  have  kind  thoughts  nowhere.  All  his  senses 
were  caught  up  in  this  tangle  of  himself.  He  felt  he  must 
grow  far  be3^ond  the  lowness  where  he  now  stoocj,  to  look 
with  free  eyes  again  upon  another. 

Tom  was  there,  however.  Tom  was  a  part  of  himself — a 
part,  then,  of  that  he  must  detest.  David  called  on  Miss 
Daindrie.  He  went  there  and  was  silent.  It  seemed  a  place, 
wide  like  clear  air,  where  he  could  look  on  himself.  He  had 
no  sense  of  her. 

He  said  to  her:  "Why  do  you  ask  me  to  come  again?  I  am 
not  amusing:  I  have  nothing  to  give  you." 

And  she:  "Come  next  week.  .  .  .  What  night,  next  week, 
can  you  come?" 

He  did  not  understand. 

But  he  was  at  a  pass  where  even  this  element  of  not  under 
standing  could  not  much  hold  him.  He  was  not  interested  in 
Miss  Daindrie.  He  was  rapt  in  a  hateful  inner  spectacle. 
What  he  needed  was  calm  and  clarity  and  strength  to  look  at 
himself.  This  he  found,  sitting  in  the  room  with  her,  and  her 
few  words  glowing  steadfast  over  his  eyes  like  candles.  So 
he  came. 

She  invited  him  to  dine. 


350  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

When  he  entered  the  drawing-room  he  felt  he  was  late  and 
they  were  waiting  for  him.  Doctor  Westerling  was  there.  A 
slight  small  man  with  a  limp  stepped  forward  from  his  chair 
and  as  David  took  his  hand  he  liked  him.  Mr.  Judson  Dam3 
drie.  Mrs.  Daindrie  had  a  cordial  smile.  It  was  all  strange 
to  David — this  warmth,  this  kindness.  He  could  not  under 
stand  it.  He  felt  a  cloud  over  the  face  of  Conrad  Westerling 
and  the  Doctor's  will  dispersing  it  till  it  was  gone.  The 
struggle  and  stress  of  this  he  thought  he  could  better  under 
stand.  Mrs.  Daindrie  was  saying  to  him: 

"Won't  you  take  Helen  down,  Mr.  Markand?" 

And  there  was  Westerling  offering  the  precedence  through 
the  door  to  a  Miss  Sophie  Laurence  who  seemed  very  heavy 
and  stupid.  All  of  these  pretty  ways  were  disconcerting 
since  they  hid  something,  David  felt,  and  he  knew  not  what. 

He  became  part  of  the  round  table.  Feeling  himself  a  part 
and  feeling  Mrs.  Daindrie  at  his  left  smile  and  be  warm  to  him, 
David  was  eager  to  move  nimself  away,  just  so  he  could  truly 
see  that  he  was  part  of  this  bright  round  table. 

Miss  Daindrie  smiled  at  him,  as  at  an  accomplice. 

"These  are  my  family,"  she  seemed  to  tell  him. 

He  was  at  ease.  He  was  unafraid  of  silence.  So  was  Miss 
Daindrie.  He  said  to  himself:  "I  am  sitting  here  quietly 
silent,  just  like  Miss  Daindrie." 

"Well,  Mr.  Markand?  I  understand  you  are  musical.  You 
play  the  piano?"  asked  Mrs.  Daindrie.  Quite  abruptly  shs 
put  her  inapposite  questions. 

"Do  have  some  more  of  the  fish!" 

"I  imagine  you  feel  quite  like  a  New  Yorker." 

She  left  him  alone.  All  of  them  left  him  alone.  He  wa3 
of  them  all. 

They  tightened  into  a  unit — they  became  a  family — they 
discussed  some  family  event  or  listened  with  a  sort  of  mystic 
understanding  to  unleavened  words  from  Miss  Laurence  whom 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  351 

they  seemed  fond  of,  as  one  is  fond  of  one's  own  foibles.  In 
these  gusts  of  attention  away  from  him,  David  was  comfort 
able.  It  seemed  to  him  that  Doctor  Westerling  was  not. 

There  was  a  fragility  about  Mr.  Daindrie.  The  skin  was 
translucent  and  tight  under  the  upstanding  wave  of  his  gray 
hair:  the  blue  eyes  were  far  in  from  the  white  tufts  of  his 
brow.  His  hands  were  very  small.  Even  sitting  there  and 
taking  the  plate  from  the  maid  and  thanking  her,  and  listen 
ing  with  respect  to  the  prattle  of  Miss  Laurence,  David  felt 
that  he  was  a  little  man  who  limped.  Intelligent.  Why*  did 
he  have  the  sense  of  conflict  between  his  intelligence  and  his 
gentility;  the  sense  of  his  head  bowing? 

In  another  way  Mrs.  Daindrie  was  slight.  She  had  a 
freckled  srtile  and  the  puffs  of  her  brown  hair  blew  out  the 
laughter  of  eyes.  She  was  satisfied,  it  seemed  to  David,  with 
the  perpetual  courtliness  of  her  husband.  Against  their  mood 
he  felt  Doctor  Westerling  veering  stiffly.  He  wondered  if  this 
was  why  he  felt  this  grain  of  resistance  in  them  all  against 
the  doctor. 

"Why,  then,  do  they  have  him  to  dinner?" 

"But  Why  do  they  have  me?" 

He  was  a  stranger,  more  so  than  Conrad  Westerling.  Yet, 
he  was  taking  the  soft  patter  of  Miss  Laurence  less  to  heart. 
Could  this  possibly  be  of  importance? 

The  door  had  opened. 

"Come  in,  Hope."  Her  mother  spied  her.  "You  may  say 
good-night." 

A  little  girl  stepped  carefully  through  shadows  that  lay 
from  the  door  to  the  bright  table  under  its  hood  of  electric 
lights.  She  dashed  swiftly  to  her  father  and  jumped  into  hia 
lap.  She  hid  her  face. 

"I  said  you  might  come  in,  Hope,  to  say  good-night." 

Hope  faced  about  and  smiled  with  a  mischievous  triumph. 


352  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

She  had  had  at  least  this  moment  from  her  mother's  precept. 
Her  father  placed  her  firmly  on  her  feet. 

"This  is  my  youngest/'  Mrs.  Daindrie  explained  to  David. 
"I  believe  you  have  never  seen  her.  Hope  dear,  don't  you 
want  to  say  good  evening  to  Mr.  Markand?" 

"Why  am  I  so  little  surprised?"  said  David  to  himself. 
What  was  there  growingly  strange  in  this  quiet  night?  "Does 
she  remember  me?"  He  felt  the  hollowness  of  nervous  strain, 
as  the  little  girl  of  the  car  came  up  to  him,  held  out  her 
hand. 

"I  know  you  already,"  she  announced  quite  clear  and  high. 

"Oh,  do  you?"  said  Mrs.  Daindrie. 

"I  know  you  also,"  David  spoke  to  Hope. 

Their  words  caused  no  great  interest.  Doubtless,  on  one 
cf  the  occasions  when  he  had  been  there  before  they  had  met. 
In  the  lack  of  concern  the  two  felt  protection. 

She  took  his  hand,  he  looked  into  her  eyes. 

They  were  not  quite  so  dimpled. 

She  tossed  her  head  and  withdrew  her  hand  and  left  him. 

David  watched  her  giving  the  same  hand  to  Doctor  Wester- 
ling,  watched  her  embrace  her  sister  with  a  burst  of  fond 
ness,  watched  her  recoil  from  the  clumsy  hug  of  Miss  Laur 
ence.  He  tried  to  believe  that  what  she  had  given  to  him 
was  secret  and  different. 

She  was  gone. 

He  felt  at  home  in  this  strange  house.  He  felt  intimate 
deeply  with  this  little  girl,  whom  he  had  watched  for  a  mo 
ment  out  of  their  wide  lives  in  a  public  car.  He  accepted  her 
in  this  house  as  he  accepted  physical  laws  of  life.  Miss  Dain 
drie  had  ears  where  they  should  be  and  they  heard  what  they 
should  hear  when  he  spoke  words  to  her.  So  this  warm  home 
had  the  little  girl  whom  he  loved,  had  his  comfort.  He  did  not 
fathom  how  now  his  love  for  Hope  was  a  quieter  thing.  He 
accepted — didn't  we? — miracle.  So  he  thought.  He  had 
looked  on  the  girl  of  the  car  with  less  intimacy  after  all. 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  353 

Intimacy  was  the  denier  of  quiet?  Words  were  the  denier 
of  knowing?  Was  he  comfortable,  intimate,  what  was  he 
here  in  this  relevant  night?  She  led  out  of  the  room  where  he 
sat  embraced  with  Miss  Daindrie.  Did*she  lead  forth — him? 
Whither?  Who  was  she  after  all? 

Doctor  Westerling  had  an  uncomfortable  smile  or  an  ab 
stract  frown  when  he  was  quiet.  Mrs.  Daindrie  remarked 
this.  She  found  she  could  better  leave  David  to  himself.  He 
did  not  mind.  Wherever  the  talk  was,  and  for  whom,  he 
listened  pleasantly.  She  must  pay  attention  to  Doctor  West 
erling  the  more  since  she  realized  that  her  daughter  did  not 
seem  to  care  if  he  was  at  ease  or  no.  A  strange  unwonted 
character  in  Helen.  There  must  be  a  reason  for  her  willed 
indifference,  at  bottom  flattering  to  the  Doctor — he  'was  there 
invited.  Anything  from  Helen  not  properly  pleasant  was 
flattering.  Mrs.  Daindrie  had  respect  for  those  who  had  the 
respect  of  her  daughter. 

She  plied  him  with  questions.  She  could  not  hold  his  in 
terest.  The  words  each  of  them  called  forth  died  out  like  a 
too  short  fuse.  Mr.  Daindrie  looked  about  the  table.  He 
saw  that  Westerling  was  being  bored  by  the  questions  of  his 
wife.  He  took  umbrage  neither  for  her  nor  against  him.  He 
was  a  quiet  man,  accepting  the  world's  clashes. 

"I  suppose  you  are  only  waiting,  Doctor,"  he  said,  "to 
take  up  your  practice  as  a  specialist?" 

"I  never  intend  to  practice,"  Westerling  replied.  There 
was  an  emphatic  note  in  his  voice  that  brought  silence  over 
the  table. 

Helen  looked  at  him,  proudly.  She  knew  the  integrity  of  his 
mind.  She  knew  her  father's  would  meet  it  and  be  pleased. 
Always  she  was  saying  to  herself  and  to  certain  of  her  friends: 
"I  have  great  respect  for  Doctor  Westerling's  mind." 

"Oh?"  questioned  Mr.  Daindrie. 

"You  see,  sir,"  Westerling  went  on,  smiling  with  a  new 
satisfaction  that  showed  how  exclusively  his  satisfaction  dwelt 


354  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

in  knowledge,  in  discussion,  in  release  from  the  naked  domain 
of  emotion,  "you  see,  when  I  graduated  from  Medical  School 
eight  years  ago,  and  from  the  hospitals  here  and  abroad,  a 
strange  revelation  had  come  to  me.  I  had  lost  faith  absolutely 
in  the  practice  of  medicine." 

Mr.  Daindrie  was  a  good  listener;  a  stern  one.  He  bowed 
his  head  judicially.  Westerling  talked  exclusively  to  him. 
But  loudly.  So  that  his  consciousness  of  other  ears  must 
have  gone  to  the  volume  of  his  voice.  Perhaps,  it  occurred 
to  David,  he  was  trying  within  this  little  cozy  table  to 
address  the  world. 

"It  was  a  problem  to  face,  let  me  assure  you.  Like  one 
who  graduates  into  the  Priesthood,  perhaps,  and  finds  he  no 
longer  believes  in  the  Divinity  of  Christ.  Harder,  much 
harder,  I  suppose — since  in  medicine  the  regime  of  study  is 
terrific." 

He  said  these  words  coldly.  He  seemed  to  avoid  a  tone 
which  might  bring  sympathy,  conviction.  He  had  no  eye  for 
the  faint  shadow  over  Mrs.  Daindrie's  face,  at  his  allusion  to 
Christ. 

"But  how  do  you  mean,  you  lost  faith?"  asked  Mr.  Dain 
drie. 

"I  had  believed  myself  devoted  to  a  science.  I  found  that 
the  present  practice  of  medicine — the  practice  of  medicine  as 
it  must  be  to-day  in  lack  of  science — is  an  empiric  fraternal 
order." 

Mrs.  Daindrie  gasped. 

"I  am  convinced  that  most  of  the  therapeutic  practices 
which  occupy  so  overwhelming  a  part  of  the  work  of  the 
doctor  must  go.  No;  I  don't  know  to  be  replaced  by  what. 
But  the  principle  of  introducing  specific  drugs  into  the  sys 
tem  to  right  specific  maladies,  right  wrongs — I  know  it  is 
false.  Some  day  most  of  our  medical  practice  will  be  regarded 
as  medieval,  quite  as  we  look  on  the  humors  and  the  cup 
pings  of  the  Sixteenth  Century  leeches." 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  355 

"But  there  is  nothing  known  to  take  the  place  of  these 
medicines?" 

"Nothing  established." 

"Then,  until  such  time,  must  we  not  use  what  we  have?" 

"Doubtless  we  must,  sir,"  Westerling  spoke  with  a  certain 
condescension.  "But  I  cannot  devote  my  life  to  the  applica 
tion  of  guess  work  and  patch  work  which,  I  am  convinced,  is 
altogether  based  on  erroneous  premises." 

"As  sweeping  as  that  .  .  .  ?"  Superlatives,  absolutes,  all 
tendencies  toward  violence  brought  out  in  Mr.  Daindrie  the 
deprecatory  smile. 

"Yes.  The  sole  sound  future  of  Medicine  must  rest  on  the 
discovery  of  principles  beneath  effects  which  we  call  physical 
and  mental  life;  principles  the  pursuit  of  which  will  make  the 
introduction  of  alien  curative  elements  into  our  bodbs  simply 
absurd.  I  am  referring  not  only  to  medicines  but  to  vaccines, 
anti-toxins — surgical  makeshifts.  The  true  curative  elements 
of  life  must  be  inherent  in  us.  Somehow  we  have  lost  them. 
I  am  convinced  the  reason  is  that  we  have  lost  certain  un 
conscious  principles  of  behavior  in  which  they  are  implicit. 
I  am  convinced  that  drugs  are  superstition." 

"But  bacilli — the  trouble  makers!"  pleaded  Mr.  Daindrie. 

"Harmless  to  the  properly  ordered  organism.  Immune  to 
anything  so  isolated  as  the  effect  of  drugs.  We  are  subject  to 
germ  diseases,  I  am  sure,  because  we  are  not  masters  of  our 
independence  of  them.  I  am  sure  that  some  day  it  will  seem 
as  absurd  to  introduce  drugs  into  our  systems  in  order  to  kill 
bugs,  as  it  would  be  now  to  say  prayers  in  order  to  drive  out 
devils." 

"But  the  devils  don't  exist!" 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that.  The  instruments  don't  exist — • 
as  they  do  for  bacilli — for  seeing  devils." 

Mr.  Daindrie  was  dazed  by  what  seemed  the  man's  veering 
from  pure  science  to  superstition. 


356  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

"You're  a  bacteriologist!"  exclaimed  Miss  Daindrie,  sensing 
her  father's  state. 

"I  am  working  to  find  out  what  disordered  conditions  of 
our  tissues  and  organs  give  the  bacteria  their  chance — the 
pernicious  ones.  Or  rather  what  conditions  develop  the 
pernicious  ones,  for  that  is  essentially  what  our  bodies  have 
done.  I  am  interested  in  nothing  else." 

Helen  felt  there  was  no  answer:  Doctor  Westerling  was  in 
terested  in  no  answer.  She  kept  silent. 

"Well,  we  do  need  doctors,"  contributed  Mrs.  Daindrie. 
"Fortunately,  not  all  doctors  refuse  to  help  the  world,  like 
you,  Doctor  Westerling." 

A  faint  sneer  crept  over  the  young  man's  features.  It 
covered  a  hurt.  David  alone  saw  the  hurt.  Mr.  Daindrie 
answered  the  sneer. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "we  must  get  on  with  the  drugs,  while  you 
have  yet  to  prove  we  can  get  on  without  them." 

"Don't  you  believe  in  any  of  our  curative  or  preventive 
service?"  asked  Helen  Daindrie. 

"Honestly,  it  is  all  nonsense." 

"All  of  it?"  She  was  withdrawing.  But  Westerling  had  a 
truth  and  he  must  pursue  it  first. 

"I  am  sure  modern  practice  has  done  more  harm  than  good. 
Operations  clean  up  appendicitis.  We  know  that.  What  we 
scarcely  guess,  is  how  many  nervous  systems,  kinetic  systems, 
circulatory  systems  are  wrecked  by  successful  operations." 

"I  had  always  thought  the  American  surgeons  were  great 
scientists." 

"They  are  great  virtuosi,"  declared  Westerling. 

"Yes,  but " 

" virtuosi  should  practice  on  pianos." 

He  was  very  excited.  He  said  no  word  of  his  own  doubts. 
He  said  no  word  of  his  vast  sacrifice  which  his  unproved  con 
victions  had  forced  upon  him.  He  could  have  become  rich  in 
the  practice  of  medicine.  No  one  knew  this  better  than  Con- 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  357 

rad  Westerling.  No  one  more  than  this  Jew  of  sensitive  family 
and  depleted  means  loved  the  luxury  and  the  freedom  of 
money.  All  his  life  he  would  labor  at  an  insignificant  salary 
because  of  the  depth  of  his  sense  of  service.  A  true  poet  of 
Science.  But  of  all  this  he  said  no  word.  He  could  not.  To 
one  person  he  needed  to  say  all  this:  the  person  he  loved,  to 
Helen.  But  until  she  said  that  she  loved  him,  he  could  not 
even  to  her.  The  strategy  of  showing  his  better  self,  of  gain 
ing  her  allegiance  to  his  cause  in  order  to  help  win  her,  was 
beyond  him.  Speaking  stridently  and  harshly  now,  it  was 
his  need  of  tenderness  and  his  deep  respect  for  the  tenderness 
of  Helen,  that  spoke. 

The  Daindries  could  not  know  this,  could  not  quite  conceal 
their  shrinking  from  him.  It  was  not  a  question  of  right,  it 
was  a  matter  of  taste.  A  too  passionate  devotion  to  an  ideal 
was  an  untoward  display,  it  was  out  of  place:  quite  as  would 
be  a  too  naked  display  of  devotion  to  a  woman.  This  stern 
stiff  man  was  at  work  perhaps  wiping  away  an  entailed  incubus 
upon  the  life  of  man,  but  he  lacked  amenity.  Their  nerves 
told  them  this.  Their  minds  hinted  that  he  had  intellect  and 
courage.  But  like  all  proper  people,  what  their  nerves  ordered 
came  first. 

David  had  liked  his  words.  They  excited  him.  He  had  un 
derstood  them  less  than  Mr.  Daindrie  or  than  Helen.  But 
he  had  visioned  more.  What  came  in  to  him  was  precisely 
the  personal  anguish,  the  personal  immolation — though  he 
could  not  configure  them  beneath  his  antagonizing  words.  He 
saw  also  Helen's  shrinking  from  the  violence  of  those  words: 
as  if  they  laid  hands  on  her,  threatened  to  exclude  all  others 
and  possess  her.  It  seemed  that  Helen  did  not  want  to  be 
possessed  by  truth.  It  must  be  something  warmer,  some 
thing  smaller  perhaps,  that  would  possess  her.  So  David 
felt  the  true  content  of  Westerling's  words.  They  held  a  bur 
den  of  great  courage,  a  plea  of  love:  these  he  was  really  offer 
ing  to  her:  these  she  would  not  accept. 


358  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

David  walked  a  few  blocks  to  the  car  with  Westerling.  He 
held  out  his  hand. 

"I  like  what  you  said  at  dinner,  oh — so  much,  Doctor!'7 

He  wanted  to  say  far  more. 

"Do  you?" 

Westerling  looked  sourly,  haughtily  at  him,  as  if  David 
were  trying  to  hurt  him.  With  a  stiff  body  too  erect  he  shook 
David's  hand — dropped  it  with  a  gesture  of  completion. 

"Good-night." 

So  David  could  not  go  on. 

But  he  went  to  Cornelia,  to  whom  he  knew  he  could  speak. 

"I  don't  think,"  he  said,  "I  am  going  back  ever  again  to 
see  Miss  Daindrie." 

Cornelia's  heart  stopped  its  beat.  "I  am  glad — I  am — • 
no,  I  can't  be  glad."  Sense  and  will  turmoiled  against  each 
other.  David  saw  her  sitting  quiet  there,  looking  at  him.  It 
was  quite  natural,  he  thought,  that  she  could  not  understand. 
He  had  come  to  tell  her.  It  came  to  him:  "She  must  think 
it  funny  that  I  should  tell  her  this.  What  can  it  matter  to 
Cornelia?" 

Cornelia,  feeling  he  would  go  on  and  that  for  this  he  had 
come  and  that  himself  would  tell  her  what  to  do,  began  to  go 
deeper  into  his  coming.  He  had  sought  her  out:  this  was 
rare:  for  a  rare  incentive.  He  had  sought  her  out  because  he 
needed  to  talk  about  Helen.  To  no  one  else  could  he  talk. 
From  no  one  else  could  he  hope  for  the  persuasion  he  wanted: 
to  send  him  back  to  her.  Here  was  a  problem  that  hurt  him. 
She  could  smoothe  it.  For  this  he  had  run  to  her.  When 
she  had  done  her  part,  he  would  leave  her  and  go  back  to 
Helen,  he  would  live  and  play  once  more.  .  .  . 

"What  is  it,  Davie?"  she  asked  aloud.  She  was  ready  for 
her  part. 

"I  am  not — not  good  enough  for  her,  Cornelia." 

Good  enough  to  come  to  her  when  she  could  soothe  him: 


THE  DARE  MOTHER  359 

not  good  enough  for  Helen.  .  .  .  "How  do  you  know  that, 
David?'7 

" Because  I  know  some  one  who  is.  ...  Conrad  Westerling 
is  good  enough  for  Helen.  I  admire  him  immensely.  I  know 
he  loves  her.  I  know  it  hurts  him  when  I  am  there.  I  have 
seen  that.  Why  should  I  hurt  him,  Cornelia?" 

"But  what  about  Helen  Daindrie?" 

"Why  shouldn't  she  love  him?  He  is  strong,  and  courage 
ous.  He  has  wonderful  ideas.  His  whole  life — I  feel  that — 
is  nothing  but  his  ideas.  She  should  love  him." 

"Is  there  room  for  Helen  in  one  so  full  of  ideas?" 

"He  loves  her,  so  there  must  be." 

"She  does  not  love  him,  so  perhaps  there  isn't." 

Cornelia  looked  at  him  blushing. 

"She  does  not  love  him,  David.  What  is  it  to  you?  Can 
you  make  her  love  him,  David,  by  staying  away?" 

David's  blush  was  crimson. 

"I — I  don't  mean  that.  N-no.  I — I  don't  know  what  I 
mean." 

He  began  pulling  at  his  handkerchief  with  nervous  fingers. 

Cornelia  steeled  herself.  .  .  Yes  she  could!  She  laughed 
at  him. 

"Why  you  funny  person — you  funny  Quixotic  David!"  A 
pause.  "Or  are  you  merely  awfully  conceited?  Answer  me, 
then:  how  will  your  staying  away  help  the  lost  cause  of 
Doctor  Westerling?" 

David  bit  his  lip,  turned  pale,  looked  at  his  twitching 
fingers. 

"I  am  a  fool,  am  I  not,  Cornelia?" 

"You  must  go  on,  seeing  Helen.  Your  staying  away  now 
would  be  offensive.  What  right  have  you  to  fight  another 
man's  battle  against  Helen?  Don't  you  see  how  presumptuous 
it  all  is?  She  knows  best  what  she  wants,  David  darling,  not 
only  of  Doctor  Westerling,  but  of  you  also." 


360  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

"Westerling  is  a  noble  man  who  has  worked  and  done 
things." 

"You  will  do  things  also.  I  won't  let  you  slight  yourself! 
That's  slighting  your  friends.  If  you  are  good  enough  for  me 

— and  for  Helen  also? "  she  found  something  near  the 

playful  smile  she  wanted,  "must  you  not  be  good  for  some 
thing?" 

"Cornelia,  I  don't  understand  her  wanting  ever  to  see  me." 

He  was  very  mute  and  very  timid,  looking  at  his  hands. 

"And  who  are  you  to  judge?  What  do  you  know  of  Doctor 
Westerling  and  of  yourself?  Live,  David — spread  out  like  a 
tree.  Then  we  shall  all  know  what  you  are." 

David  got  up. 

"There!"  She  came  up  to  him  close.  She  took  his  head 
in  her  two  hands.  "Are  you  convinced?"  He  shook  his  head 
and  her  hands  moved  with  it.  ... 

Since  her  plan  had  been  found  and  she  knew  that  it  was 
working,  there  was  peace  in  Cornelia.  Her  way  with  David 
was  the  way  of  a  mother.  She  knew  how  this  birth  and  this 
life  had  rended  her:  what  it  had  cost  her  in  blood  and  anguish. 
So  is  the  mother  peaceful,  knowing  this,  with  her  unknowing 
child. 

She  took  her  toll  of  him,  like  a  mother  also.  She  held  his 
cheeks  with  her  hands  and  she  drew  him  down  and  kissed 
him. 

"And  you  see,  don't  you,  why  you  can't  stop  so  suddenly 
from  going  to  see  her?  What  would  she  think?  The  offense 
and  the  pain — yes,  David,  the  pain,  if  you  stayed  away?" 

He  went  back  to  Helen  Daindrie.  He  went  again  and  again. 
Cornelia  had  settled  and  given  him  what  he  desired.  There 
was  reason  no  longer  for  seeing  Cornelia. 

Spending  his  quiet  evenings  with  Helen,  he  did  not  see  the 
Doctor.  He  forgot  him,  he  was  ashamed,  as  Cornelia  had 
cleverly  made  him,  of  the  conceited  presumption  that  he  could 
help  his  cause  by  staying  away.  He  came,  therefore,  feeling 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  361 

nothing  but  peace:  wanting  the  right  to  feel  no  other  thing. 
For  in  peace,  he  came  to  himself.  And  what  he  sought  above 
all  else  was  this.  Coming  to  Helen  and  sitting  there  beside 
her,  it  was  easier,  somehow. 

But  it  was  easier  most  of  all  to  look  at  Tom,  and  know  he 
hated  him,  and  know  that  they  must  part.  .  .  . 

They  had  gone  on  living  together.  The  silence  about  them, 
holding  them  in,  was  stiff  and  frozen. 

David  went  no  longer  to  Flora's.  He  wandered  about  the 
City,  seeing  nothing,  until  his  legs  ached,  and  then  he  went  to 
bed.  He  found  that  he  needed  more  sleep  than  he  had  needed 
in  years.  There  was  a  constant  weighing  soreness  in  his  body. 
His  head  was  heavy.  His  thoughts  pushed  through  some 
clotted  substance  in  his  mind  with  a  swerving  pain.  Often 
his  eyes  ached:  often  his  food  did  not  agree  with  him.  Yet 
he  was  hungry.  He  needed  great  sleep,  great  food.  After 
sleep,  he  was  heavy,  after  food  he  was  often  sick  with  heart 
burn.  He  was  like  a  pregnant  woman.  He  went  about  loaded 
and  diminished.  His  thoughts  delineated  no  true  objective 
world.  What  came  with  any  sharpness  into  the  mist  of  his 
mind,  he  hated.  Thus  Tom.  What  soothed  his  dwelling  in 
these  mists  he  courted.  Thus  Helen  Daindrie. 

His  sleep  also  was  strange.  It  was  dreamless.  When  he 
closed  his  eyes  he  dropped,  almost  at  once,  into  a  profound 
close  pit  whose  blackness  held  him  moveless.  When  he  woke, 
it  was  some  force,  far  down  where  he  had  been,  that  had 
spewed  him  up:  his  brow  aching  and  his  body  churned  with  a 
great  dizzy  distance. 

He  attended  to  work.  There  was  always  enough  mental 
energy  for  that.  In  fact  his  work  was  his  savior.  It  took 
him  out  of  himself:  but  not  upon  some  shattering  objective 
world,  shrunken  and  tortured  and  congested  like  that  by 
which  he  had  once  measured  himself  and  found  that  he  was 
good.  It  took  him  out  of  himself  into  an  easy  world  of 


362  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

conventions  and  abstractions:  where  figures  had  the  relief 
of  ineluctable  laws,  where  there  were  fixed  commodities  like 
tobacco  and  freight-rates,  where  men  were  sure  machines  of 
buying  and  selling,  where  values  and  credit  could  be  deter 
mined.  A  sweet,  imagined,  malleable  world,  the  world  of 
Business,  in  which  each  day  for  a  few  hours,  David  took 
refuge.  Another  such  world  he  now  rediscovered  and  fre 
quented.  He  had  greatly  neglected  his  violin.  Always  he 
had  played  without  consistency,  and  now  he  did  not  play  at 
all.  It  must  have  been  painful  and  intrusive  to  make  music 
of  one's  own,  so  David  let  the  dust  gather  on  his  instrument 
and  the  strings  break.  It  was  different  with  the  world  of 
the  music  of  others.  David  began  to  go  to  concerts:  chiefly 
orchestral  concerts.  He  did  not  care  for  the  virtuosi,  he  de 
tested  Opera.  The  symphony  of  eighty  upraised  voices,  mar- 
velously  artificial,  essenced  and  controlled,  swung  him  at  once 
into  a  distant  land.  These  worlds  of  the  violins  and  horns 
and  'celli  were  also  concise  and  constrained.  Their  ecstasy 
was  a  comfortable  unit,  as  compared  with  the  vast  vagueness 
of  a  City  street.  In  a  way  far  more  grandiose,  music  was  a 
release,  like  business,  for  David. 

With  violent  wrenching  of  his  nerves,  he  forced  himself  to 
look  at  his  dear  friend.  .  .  .  This  after  all  was  Tom  whom 
he  had  loved,  who  had  found  him  at  his  advent  into  the  life 
of  the  City  and  into  life  itself.  This  was  that  friend  who  had 
opened  his  mind,  loosed  his  tongue,  made  him  not  too  bitterly 
mourn  his  mother.  This  was  Tom  who,  when  he  was  ill,  had 
nursed  him  and  he  had  been  so  sure  had  loved  him,  whom  now 
with  straining  nerves  he  tried  to  see,  clear  through  a  strange 
hot  haze  about  them. 

Tom  sat  there  reading.  No:  he  was  not  reading.  His  head 
was  bowed  over  the  book,  but  his  eyes  were  away.  He  was 
very  graceful,  there  in  his  rocking  chair,  with  a  leg  thrown 
over  the  other  knee  and  the  gentle  line  of  his  sharp  shoulders 
drooping  down  to  his  chin.  Tom.  His  best  friend  1  David 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  363 

looked  on  him  with  a  great  love.  What  a  clear  clean  face  he 
had.  David  knew  that  the  thinning  hair  so  faint  above  his 
high  square  brow  was  soft  like  silk.  That  his  eyes,  if  he  saw 
them  now,  would  be  dim  with  a  moisture  he  could  not  let 
be  tears.  And  the  old  gnarled  hands:  the  hands  of  one  who 
struggled  stintlessly  and  was  master.  What  was  there  wrong 
in  Tom?  Sitting  across  the  room  they  had  once  chosen  with 
such  joy  together — "the  Sun  is  there!  Davie,  think  of  that 
rare  god,  the  Sun:  he  will  visit  us  each  morning  and  stay  all 
day" — was  it  not  hard  for  him  to  look  on  the  years  that  inter 
vened  and  that  were  somehow  wrong?  Why?  Why  was  not 
life  the  simple  thing  it  had  appeared?  They  had  gone  sing 
ing  a  song  together:  it  was  not  right  that  it  should  end  in 
tears. 

But  now  there  was  new  strength  in  David;  a  new  vantage 
point  he  seemed  mystically  to  have  gained,  where  he  could 
clamber  up  and  look  about  him.  Often  he  had  gone  so  far. 
Beating  with  regretful  wings  against  a  perverse  reality  that 
prisoned  him  no  less.  No  less.  Now,  it  was  less  indeed.  If 
he  came  again  to  the  conclusion  at  whose  brink  he  had  stood 
so  often,  now  he  could  follow  it.  No  bar  between  him  and 
what  he  decided  to  do.  If  Tom  was  false  and  a  false  friend, 
he  would  step  over  the  brink! 

Gracefully  Tom  sat  there.  And  it  was  sure  in  David  that 
if  ever  he  had  loved,  this  was  the  loved  one.  There  had  been 
women  whom  he  had  embraced,  close  of  kin  who  had  housed 
him.  This  was  a  mere  comrade,  a  mere  fellow-man:  his  hand 
clasp  was  strongest  of  all.  But  also  there  was  life.  How  little 
he  knew  of  life!  What  a  sweet  hedged  delirium  was  music, 
what  a  close  cabin  his  affairs  downtown.  Tom  had  taught  him 
life.  Life  of  a  sort  Tom  gave  him  now,  as  had  his  mother. 
What  if  he  must  be  born  again,  away,  as  once  from  her? 

He  had  lived  in  a  sweet  dream.  One  walked  along  a  road. 
At  times,  it  was  garlanded  in  fields:  at  times  it  rose  between 
jagged  heights,  or  dropped  beside  the  spume  and  the  roar  of 


364  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

waters.  A  road,  clear  and  straight,  and  one  could  walk  it. 
Here  he  had  met  Tom.  They  had  joined  hands.  They  would 
walk  the  road  together.  The  steady  road.  The  fleeting 
dream  wherein  he  walked.  .  .  .  For  here  was  no  such  road  at 
all!  Kow  could  one  be  sure  of  a  hand  clasped  at  one's  side? 
Which  were  the  fields  and  which  the  mountains  and  which 
the  torrents?  In  their  delirious  tangle,  where  was  the  road? 

Tom  had  poisoned  him.  Tom  had  lied  to  him.  Tom 
led  him  into  ugly  places.  Tom  had  a  laughter  that  did  not 
mean  joy  and  tears  that  bespoke  sorrow  of  a  sort  he  could 
not  give  his  heart  to.  A  merry  world.  A  horrible  world! 
He  needed  to  blot  it  out.  It  was  so  packed  a  frenzy  of 
maze  and  quicksand,  that,  if  he  did  not  draw  himself  away, 
he  must  become  a  part  of  its  frenzy — a  mere  whirling  mole 
cule  in  its  tortuous  falsehood. 

Let  Tom  go  his  own  way!     Let  him  be! 

David  found  what  he  was  doing.  There  was  his  place  of 
vantage  to  which  he  could  swing,  and  there  was  he,  clamber 
ing  up  to  it.  He  was  leaving  Tom  behind. 

They  had  a  talk. 

Tom  looked  silently  and  long  at  David.  He  was  very  sweet 
and  like  the  Tom  David  would  never  have  left,  in  his  silence. 
Then  he  said: 

"David,  I  hope  that  whatever  you  do,  you  will  not  marry 
a  good  and  beautiful  woman." 

He  seemed  very  tired  to  David.  The  old  fire  was  there> 
but  it  was  moveless  under  a  cloud  that  would  not  break. 

David  had  no  thought  of  marrying  any  one.  No  plar 
was  farther  from  his  consciousness.  He  smiled  rather  con 
fidently,  therefore.  He  was  interested. 

"Why?" 

"Because,  if  you  marry  that  sort,  it  will  be  almost  impossi 
ble  for  you  to  break  away." 

"Why,  Tom,  if  one  married  should  one  want  to  break 
away?" 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  365 

"Marriage  has  this,  dreadful  about  it,  David.  It  is  life 
for  a  woman  to  be  married,  death  for  a  man." 

"How  is  that  possible?  If  it  is  good  for  one •  What 

a  discord  you  make  of  the  world!" 

Tom  laughed.     The  fire  parted  the  cloud. 

"What  is  the  world  but  just  such  unending  discord?  Look 
at  the  world.  Is  it  a  sweet  harmonious  place?  The  one 
harmony  it  knows  is  an  infinite  texture  of  just  such  deathless 
conflicts,  of  just  such  tragic  sacrifice  of  individual  lives  to  its 
cruel  rhythms." 

David  was  silent.  Tom,  the  barer  of  life,  was  once  more 
before  him.  He  felt  that  Tom  might  well  be  true  in  his  words. 
He  had  not  altogether  left  the  road  of  his  Dream. 

Tom  went  on.  He  had  been  silent  and  distant.  He  had 
made,  for  a  long  time,  no  advances  to  David.  He  had  left  him 
alone.  Now  in  the  silence  of  David,  he  saw  his  old  art  upon 
him,  caught  the  flare  of  that  past  when  he  had  taught  and 
given  and  David  had  received.  He  had  no  power  against  this 
haunting  past  which  he  loved.  He  went  forward  to  recapture 
it.  Blindly  he  went  like  an  insect  toward  a  fire. 

"David,"  he  spoke  with  an  incomprehensible  passion  that 
shriveled  his  face,  "David,  I  would  rather  see  you  married 
to  a  whore — than  to  a  woman  who  is  beautiful  and  strong." 

Already  he  was  afraid,  burned  perhaps.  He  swerved  away. 
"...  Though  it  broke  your  heart,  it  would  be  less  dangerous. 
You  would  escape.  Comfort  and  happiness  alone,  you  will 
be  helpless  against." 

He  stopped.  He  looked  at  David.  He  saw  how  different 
this  was  which  had  happened  after  his  words,  from  what  had 
always  happened.  David  was  calm.  He  was  away.  Tom 
had  lost  him.  ,  s  g 

David  went  on  with  his  visits  to  Helen  Daindrie. 
He  found  he  was  telling  her  all  the  little  things  that  filled 
his  days  and  nights — the  little  nothings. 


366  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

"I  don't  know  where  I  walked/'  he  said.  "It  was  very- 
noisy,  I  know.  But  it  all  seemed  so  quiet.  There  was  a 
silence  in  the  men  and  women.  ...  It  seemed  as  if  there, 
was  a  silence  in  them,  and  they  were  scurrying  about  so  fast 
to  get  away  from  it.  ...  But  the  silence  clung." 

"You  spend  very  little  time  at  home." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head. 

"Don't  you  care  to  read?" 

"I  don't  seem  to,  now." 

"Why,  David?" 

"I  do  not  want  to  be  at  home.  When  I  am  home,  I  go  to 
bed.  Even  if  it  is  only  nine  o'clock." 

And  then  there  was  a  pause. 

"You  do  not  seem,"  she  said,  "to  be  very  fond  of  the  com 
pany  of  your  friend." 

He  shook  his  head  again,  looked  away.  It  was  not  needful, 
long.  Again,  he  saw  her. 

He  was  very  easeful  and  relaxed.  He  made  no  effort  to 
talk  or  to  conceal,  when  he  was  with  her.  She  was  a  sweet 
impersonal  presence.  It  was  good  of  her  to  let  him  come  so 
often.  He  had  no  sense  within  his  vision  of  himself  in  the 
world,  of  her  who  was  a  woman  beside  him. 

One  time,  after  a  great  quiet,  she  said: 

"Why,  since  these  things  are  so,  do  you  not  live  alone?" 

Her  words  were  part  of  the  quiet.  They  did  not  break  it. 
They  were  very  calm  and  very  quiet  indeed.  So  they  entered 
into  David. 

He  had  not  answered  her.  Often  he  sat  so,  still,  and  when 
he  spoke  it  was  upon  some  other  theme.  She  never  spoke 
these  words  again.  .  .  . 

It  was  Spring.  .  .  . 

David  got  up  very  early  from  his  bed,  he  went  into  their 
large  room,  it  slumbered  restlessly  there,  he  looked  out  of  the 
window. 

A  great  mist  was  before  his  eyes.    A  great  mist  lay  in  the- 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  367 

street.  He  could  not  see  the  street  and  the  opposite  houses.  It 
was  a  great  white  mist,  warm  and  rolling  away:  the  mist  of 
morning.  He  looked  toward  the  east.  There,  dim  in  the 
white,  were  the  trees  of  the  little  Square.  Above  them  he 
saw  the  Sun,  a  gleam,  swathed  in  the  vapors. 

He  went  back  to  bed  and  to  sleep. 

When  he  awoke,  he  was  rested.  He  was  very  warm  under 
his  sheet;  he  had  perspired.  Under  his  flesh  he  was  cool  and 
rested  as  he  had  not  been  in  a  long  time. 

He  returned  to  the  large  room  and  looked  once  more  out 
of  the  window. 

The  Sun  was  a  naked  flame  jeweling  the  sky.  The  trees 
of  the  little  Park  were  shrill  with  green  and  the  moisture 
sang  on  them  like  tinkling  glass. 

Tom  came  in.     David  said  to  him: 

"Tom,  I  think  I  want  to  go  away  and  live  alone." 

Tom  was  haggard  in  the  sunlight.  His  eyes  were  hot  and 
rimmed  in  shadows. 

He  nodded.  "Of  course,  Davie,"  he  said.  "Go  now,  if  you 
want  to.  I  shall  be  glad  to  keep  the  place." 

The  two  friends  looked  at  each  other.  David  wanted  to 
take  Tom's  hand:  he  wanted  to  cry.  Tom  stood  there,  stiff, 
graceless  for  once,  and  did  not  help  him.  .  ,  . 

Thus  easy  it  had  come  like  leaves  on  the  tree  in  Spring; 
like  Sun  out  of  the  mists  of  dawn.  David  thought  very  little 
about  it. 

He  went  on  going  to  see  Helen.  He  took  his  trunk  and  his 
books  and  his  violin  and  moved  them  into  an  ample  furnished 
room  on  the  West  Side.  He  was  to  have  a  bathroom  of  his 
own.  He  would  be  comfortably  fitted  out. 

On  the  last  day,  he  held  out  his  hand.    He  said: 

"My  trunk  will  be  called  for  to-day,  Tom.  I  have  taken  a 
room."  He  gave  Tom  the  address  which  he  had  written  on 
a  piece  of  paper. 


368  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

Tom  took  it  between  his  thumb  and  finger.  "Thank  you, 
David."  He  had  not  looked  at  it. 

Mrs.  Lario  came  in,  behind  a  large  tray  that  held  their 
breakfast.  Quickly  she  set  the  table.  She  laid  a  newspaper, 
longitudinally  folded,  beside  each  plate.  She  left.  Tom  and 
David  sat  down  to  their  last  breakfast. 

Usually,  they  read  their  papers.  It  helped  to  stem  the 
arid  draught  of  their  silence.  Now,  they  placed  their  papers 
unread  away.  Tom  looked  at  David.  He  made  no  effort  to 
speak.  His  temple  was  pulsing.  David  was  trying  to  eat. 
He  looked  at  his  food.  He  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  also 
his  thoughts  seemed  to  incline  away.  He  said  to  himself: 
"Pmust  be  natural.  What  am  I  doing?"  He  found  that 
he  could  not  eat  his  breakfast.  He  had  a  swallow  of  water, 
a  spoonful  of  oatmeal.  He  could  taste  what  he  had  eaten. 
It  seemed  to  be  still  in  his*  mouth.  He  raised  his  head  and 
looked  at  Tom. 

For  an  instant  they  saw  each  other. 

A  terror  came  upon  David,  a  great  pain.  He  could  not  bear 
this.  Was  this  not  his  friend  whom  he  was  leaving?  For 
whatever  reason,  to  whatever  end,  this  was  Tom,  and  he  loved 
him,  and  he  was  cutting  an  artery  that  throbbed  with  blood. 
He  could  not  linger.  He  felt  himself  being  swept  toward  a 
sort  of  precipice.  He  was  afraid.  It  was  as  if  he  held  in 
his  hands  some  precious  life,  and  he  and  it  were  being  en 
tranced  toward  the  brink.  Every  vein  in  his  head  beat  hard 
against  his  going:  cried  for  his  moving. 

He  got  up.  He  was  trembling.  Tom  smiled  no  longer. 
There  was  a  passion  in  his  eyes,  as  if  this  getting  up  of  David 
were  some  fatal  execution  he  had  awaited  and  steeled  him 
self  to  meet.  His  face  was  bloodless. 

"Good-by,  Tom,"  David  put  out  his  hand. 

Tom  took  it.    He  held  it  limply.    Then  he  pressed  it  hard. 

"Good-by,  Boy,"  he  said.  .  .  . 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  369 

Helen  Daindrie  had  a  friend,  "my  young  friend"  she  called 
her  with  just  a  touch  of  condescension,  a  girl  who  had  studied 
the  violin  abroad  with  the  greatest  masters  and  who  was  once 
more  in  New  York.  She  was  to  make  her  official  bow  in  the 
Fall.  Helen  Daindrie  asked  a  few  of  her  friends  to  come  and 
hear  her. 

"I  have  invited  Cornelia,"  she  said  to  David.  "Will  you 
call  for  her  and  bring  her?" 

David  had  not  seen  Cornelia  more  than  twice  in  the  past 
three  months.  He  had  not  seen  her  once  of  his  own  initiative. 
When  she  asked  him  to  come,  he  obeyed.  He  always  would. 
Despite  himself,  he  had  the  feeling  for  her  that  a  young  man 
might  have  for  a  maiden  aunt:  he  was  deeply,  even  ideally 
fond  of  her,  but  she  seemed  to  live  in  another  world,  there 
was  no  way  of  contact  nor  of  expression  for  his  fondness. 

Since  he  was  living  alone,  he  had  not  seen  her  at  all. 

She  greeted  him,  when  he  came,  as  usual,  cordially,  with  no 
hint  of  the  empty  months  without  him.  Her  eyes  no  longer 
searched  him  with  hot,  comfortless  inquiries.  It  was  as  if 
she  had  done  everything  she  could  to  be  acceptable  to  David. 
She  was  quite  ready. 

"Just  a  minute,  while  I  throw  on  my  cloak.  It's  very 
warm,  isn't  it?  It  isn't  going  to  rain?" 

"I  don't  think  so.     It's  a  glorious  night." 

"A  glorious  night?  Do  you  think  we  have  time  to  walk  a 
little?" 

He  watched  her  finally  settling  her  hair  before  the  mirror. 
She  was  "dressed-up"  in  a  slim  white  gown.  She  was  ugly. 
Her  head  outweighed  her  body:  it  gave  her  a  gaunt  and  naked 
look  in  her  white  dress.  The  yellow  skin  of  her  face  broke  the 
paltry  shimmer  of  her  gown  into  green  and  gray. 

"I'm  afraid,"  said  David,  "we  might  be  late  if  we  walked." 

"Very  well."  She  came  up  to  him  and  smiled.  "Come." 
She  opened  the  door. 

"Well,  Davie,  tell  me  how  have  you  been?" 


370  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

It  was  hard  for  him  to  speak.  It  was  impossible  for  him 
to  smile  as  he  wished  to.  Cornelia  seemed  inadequate  to  his 
young  hunger.  He  was  angry  at  himself  for  this.  He  owed 
her  better.  He  was  not  a  very  good  and  loyal  friend,  he 
supposed.  Tom  was  right  in  what  he  said,  however  wrong 
in  what  he  was.  He  walked  beside  Cornelia  to  the  car,  through 
the  sweet  May  night:  and  in  order  to  hold  himself  beside  her 
and  take  her  arm  at  the  crossing,  he  needed  to  forget  her.  .  .  ». 

.;  On  the  top  floor  of  the  house  of  the  Daindries  was  a  wide 
quiet  room  which  Helen  had  fitted  out  for  her  own.  Its  easy 
spaces  were  conserved  and  rounded  by  the  uncluttered  furni 
ture.  Nothing  was  large  and  ponderous  to  defeat  them.  Two 
lamps  stood  wide  away  on  little  tables.  Their  low  light 
brought  out  the  warm  dark  stroke  of  the  couch  and  absorbed 
the  rugs.  The  gray  walls  had  a  retreating  texture. 

The  guests  sat  very  hushed  and  hidden  in  the  shadows 
and  the  music.  A  tall  girl  swayed  by  the  piano:  she  was 
raw-boned  and  gaunt  above  the  light  of  the  lamp.  Her  docked 
hair  flung  away  from  the  sheer  strong  forehead.  She  played 
with  a  restraint  that  burned:  it  was  her  restraint  that  she 
flung  circling  and  lowering  from  her  sharp  shoulders  down 
upon  the  hidden  guests. 

The  guests  sat,  suddenly  tamed,  suddenly  cowed.  They 
were  the  world  to  David — a  motley  mass  made  one  by  the  dark 
and  the  music,  that  would  rise  up  again  and  be  a  tearing  thing 
against  his  life.  Now  they  were  breathing  hard;  something 
had  shut  them  up  in  their  own  narrow  breasts. 
'  The  girl  stepped  toward  them,  away  from  the  piano.  The 
piano  was  silent.  He  who  had  sat  at  it  and  followed  her 
mood,  who  had  trailed  like  a  wake  in  a  muffled  sea  upon  her 
passage  was  now  withdrawn.  The  girl  stood  like  one  naked 
above  the  room.  The  music  she  had  played  and  the  guests 
lay  trammeled  spirits  at  her  feet.  She  moved  and  stepped  upon 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  371 

them.  She  lifted  her  violin  to  play  alone.  It  was  Bach  she 
was  playing. 

She  was  a  sharp  high  figure  cutting  the  dark  room.  Her 
violin  was  a  hard  creature  that  sobbed  and  was  soft.  J5he 
and  her  violin  and  the  huddled  life  of  the  world  within  the 
room  were  the  music  that  was  Bach. 

As  she  played  she  moved.  She  moved  up  and  down:  she 
was  very  free  with  her  sweeping  arm  and  her  long  legs  walking 
as  she  played.  From  her  freedom  came  an  uttered  Law  and 
fell  upon  them  all. 

They  were  struck  by  the  clear  strokes  of  her  playing  and 
her  walking  up  and  down:  they  were  showered  in  the  fire 
of  this  molten  music.  .  .  . 

David  recaptured  himself.  He  seemed  to  be  sitting  in  a 
black  pool  of  life.  All  of  the  lives  of  these  about  him  were 
one:  they  were  melted  together.  They  had  no  being  apart, 
they  had  no  light.  They  were  a  black  pool,  stirless.  Now  he 
felt  somewhere  still  a  glow:  under  the  black  hush  and  above 
the  strokes  of  the  music.  His  senses  went  seeking  a  glow 
that  he  felt  somewhere  still. 

He  sat  on  a  couch.  Next  him  a  woman:  next  her  a  man. 
The  music  flooded  and  beat  and  these  had  no  life  against  it. 
They  were  a  dim  base  on  which  the  music  dwelt.  Still  he 
knew  that  this  glow  he  felt  was  real  and  was  near.  It  was  a 
presence  to  him.  His  eyes  wandered  to  find  it. 

Against  the  music  and  himself  and  the  room,  his  eyes  went, 
seeking  the  magic  more  real  than  the  music  whereby  he  might 
come  to  life.  They  found! 

She  was  sitting  far  back  at  the  other  end  of  the  couch: 
she  was  lost  in  the  black  pool  of  the  room  as  no  one  else,  so 
that  he  could  not  see  her.  Yet  David  knew  her,  glowing  alone, 
and  knew  what  precious  thing  this  was  which  he  had  found  in 
the  world.  Once  more,  and  as  never  before,  it  came  to  him, 
that  he  had  never  known  her:  that  he  had  never  seen  her. 
She  was  hidden  there  with  her  true  magic,  in  a  false  real  world, 


372  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

and  he  could  not  know  her  now,  nor  see  her.  But  he  knew 
that  he  wanted  to  know  her,  and  that  he  wanted  to  see  her. 

He  sat  with  a  new  quiet  holding  him  tenderly.  The  girl 
played  on.  A  passionate  fantasy  flooded  forth  from  the  round 
mouth  of  the  violin.  It  rocked  the  room.  It  tore  at  these 
submerged  ones  living  there  and  shredded  them  in  its  meas 
ured  frenzy.  But  David  was  quiet  and  sure.  The  world  was 
a  mad  wild  place  for  this  moment  dominioned:  the  music 
lashing  it  was  also  wild  and  was  sunless,  it  was  a  river  buried 
under  rocks  of  the  earth  and  making  them  tremble.  The 
glow  he  had  found  was  a  warm  place  where  he  would  dwell. 

The  girl  had  stopped,  she  was  leaning  over  her  violin,  she 
was  packing  it  away. 

The  guests  moved  slow  and  uncertain,  like  the  maimed 
creatures  they  were.  Their  voices  were  splinters  of  their 
broken  selves. 

They  began  to  leave. 

Cornelia  stood  near  the  door.  She  was  looking  for  David. 
She  saw  him. 

She  saw  that  he  did  not  want  to  escort  her  home.  Very 
dimly  his  conscience  was  stirring  in  his  mind.  If  she  dis 
appeared,  his  conscience  would  go  also.  It  would  leave  no 
trace. 

She  was  very  shrunk  and  pitiful  in  the  long  swell  of  the 
music.  She  knew  he  must  not  see  her  another  moment.  His 
conscience  might  win  and  he  might  take  her  home:  he  would 
never  forgive  her.  She  saw  a  new  world  in  his  eyes,  turning 
his  eyes  from  hers. 

She  slipped  out. 

And  all  the  guests  were  gone. 

There  was  no  one  in  the  room  save  David  and  this  Helen 
he  did  not  know.  She  stood  there,  straight  and  small  in  the 
center  of  the  room.  She  looked  at  him. 

He  came  to  her.  Everything  he  did  was  slow.  He  had  a 
sense  of  an  eternity  in  which  he  was  about  to  step.  The  pas- 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  373 

sions  of  his  life  seemed  shivered  fragments  beside  the  stead 
fast  vastness  of  this  moment. 

She  was  near  him  now.  He  had  her  warm  pervasion  all 
about  him.  He  put  his  arms  around  her  waist.  Her  arms 
were  stiff  at  her  side.  As  she  leaned  faintly  back  from  the 
pressure  of  his  hands,  her  face  turned  upward.  So  he  drew 
her  in,  until  her  mouth  was  his.  .  .  . 

Cornelia  was  home.  Straight  she  went  into  her  little  bed 
room  and  lit  the  gas.  She  looked  at  herself  in  the  mirror. 
Her  face  was  pale,  but  a  dim  flush  flowered  her  cheeks.  Her 
eyes  were  wide  and  deep  with  a  dry  passion.  She  looked  at 
herself;  aloud  she  said: 

"This  is  I.  This  is  Cornelia  Rennard."  Her  voice  ceased, 
she  went  on  speaking.  "I  am  beautiful.  For  one  time,  I  am 

beautiful.  If  he  could  see  me  now "  It  was  so.  It  was 

a  pity  he  could  not  see  her  now. 

She  turned  away,  she  took  off  her  dress.  Carefully  she 
smoothed  out  its  folds:  she  placed  it  away.  She  had  a  house- 
gown  of  warm  quilted  silk-brocade — it  was  brown.  She  put 
it  on.  She  fastened  it  tight  about  her  and  made  the  belt 
sure  about  her  waist  with  a  knot. 

She  went  to  her  desk  and  sat  down. 

She  took  a  calendar  date-book  and  laid  it  before  her.  There 
was  an  engagement  inscribed  for  the  following  Sunday.  The 
rest  of  the  days  were  blank.  She  began  to  write. 

"Sunday:  prepare  sketch  for  the  Trenton  fountain.  Eve 
ning,  Furzes  for  dinner.  Tuesday:  ask  Mr.  Bailey  about 
Philadelphia.  Friday:  Jack  and  Clara  to  tea." 

She  filled  ten  days  with  her  mental  notes  of  engagements. 
When  she  had  done  so  much,  suddenly  she  grasped  the  book 
in  her  two  hands  as  if  to  tear  it.  Her  hands  stopped  in 
suspense.  Her  face  turned  upward. 

"It  has  to  be,"  she  said,  once  more  aloud.  "It  is  a  lie.  .  .  . 
What  is  a  lie?"  She  was  smiling.  "Cornelia "  she  ten- 


374  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

derly  spoke,  almost  maternally  to  herself,  "when  one  does  a 
thing,  do  it  well." 

She  laid  the  date-book  open  at  the  center  of  the  desk. 

With  a  swift  thrust  she  opened  the  drawers.  She  closed 
them.  No.  There  was  nothing  there  to  be  concealed. 

She  was  up.  She  smiled;  once  more  she  took  a  pencil  and 
turned  the  pages  of  the  book  to  a  day  two  weeks  away.  She 
wrote: 

"Ask  David  to  dinner." 

Then,  she  straightened  and  crossed  the  room. 

A  batch  of  painted  sheets  were  in  her  arms.  Her  water- 
colors,  her  incomprehensible  confessions.  She  laid  them  forth 
on  the  table,  looked  long  at  them.  They  were  very  lovely, 
these  delirious  designs,  these  flauntings  of  form  and  color. 
Color  rose  in  them  to  form,  form  faded  and  died  away  to 
the  realms  of  color.  But  she  looked  at  them  and  shook  her 
head.  They  meant  nothing  to  her. 

"What  nonsense,"  she  breathed. 

Then:  "Perhaps  some  of  my  statues  may  live.  That  first 
bronze " 

She  swept  the  sketches  back  into  her  arms,  she  thrust  them 
into  the  hearth.  It  was  cold  and  black.  In  a  moment  it 
blazed.  But  the  sheets  burned  slowly,  imperfectly.  The  fire 
went  out.  She  had  to  scatter  them  and  work  upon  them  and 
light  them  several  times  with  many  matches  before  they  were 
ash. 

At  last  it  was  done.     Stubborn  confessional! 

She  laughed  at  the  daubed  papers  that  had  not  wanted 
to  die. 

She  turned  out  the  light  and  went  once  more  into  the 
bedroom.  She  opened  the  window  wide. 

The  balmy  night  swept  over  her  head  into  the  room.  Street 
slumbered.  Brutal  lines  of  the  street  seemed  broken  into 
curves:  its  hard  stillness  rose  now  and  swayed,  fell  murmuring 
beyond  her  eyes. 


THE  DARK  MOTHER  375 

Cornelia  leaned  heavy  on  her  arms.  She  could  feel  the 
weight  of  her  body  against  her  elbows.  This  was  the  night 
and  this  was  the  world.  The  one  world  she  had  ever  known: 
the  one  night  also. 

Why  had  all  of  it  been?  She  saw  herself.  She  must  have 
been  above  and  beyond  herself;  she  saw  herself  from  the 
back.  She  was  leaning  there,  a  slender  girl,  out  of  the  win 
dow.  She  was  a  narrow  form,  swathed  in  warm  brown  silk- 
brocade,  with  a  neck  that  was  a  little  too  long  for  such  slight 
shoulders.  And  her  elbows  ached.  And  the  window  fram 
ing  her  led  into  the  world.  It  was  a  round  place:  it  went 
twirling  about  in  interminable  ether.  It  flung  near  blazing 
monsters  like  the  Sun,  that  also  were  lost  in  the  black,  blind 
spaces  so  that  their  conflagrations  were  sparks  flecking  the 
universal  slumber.  Upon  this  twirling  ball  was  life.  Every 
where  she  looked,  was  life.  One  spot  of  earth  was  a  city  of 
creation,  one  drop  of  water  was  a  multitudinous  welter.  Here, 
somehow,  she.  She  could  look  beyond  herself  and  the  win 
dow  and  the  gyring  City.  She  could  see  the  world  and  the 
stars  and  the  Sun  lost  like  specks  in  the  universal  slumber. 
This  was  her  yearning.  Let  her  sleep!  She  was  tired. 

Let  her  be  one  with  slumber  beyond  creation.  Out  of 
slumber  creation  had  come,  creation  which  was  a  scum  of  eggs 
on  a  black  flower.  Let  her  brush  it  away.  Let  her  brush 
it  clean. 

What  she  yearned  was  a  thing  more  sure  and  real  than 

world.     Her  eyes  went   out   from   behind   where  she   stood 

yearning,   passed    the   world   in   a   flash.     So   small   it   was. 

Passed  the  stars  that  were  dim  above  houses.     The  black 

Nothing  was  All.    The  stirrings  of  suns  were  flecks  upon  glow 

of  black  spaces. 

She  leaned  there  and  yearned,  and  argued;  she  could  not 

move. 

She  sobbed  dryly. 


376  THE  DARK  MOTHER 

She  stayed  there  long.  Then,  in  dim  eyes,  she  left  the 
window,  she  threw  herself  upon  the  bed. 

She  fell  asleep. 

She  awoke. 

It  was  very  dark.  About  her  was  nothing.  About  her 
was  no  obstruction.  She  was  aware  of  her  breathing  as  of 
an  intruder.  She  rose  from  her  bed.  All  of  the  weight  was 
within,  all  of  the  clutter  was  within,  all  of  the  pain  was 
within.  She  moved  outside  herself  with  a  vast,  sweet  free 
dom,  for  outside  her  was  nothing. 

She  went  to  the  window  and  jumped  out. 

How  long  David  had  held  Helen  in  his  embrace,  he  did 
not  know.  It  was  almost  like  sleep:  measureless.  Now 
waking  from  her  arms,  he  felt  her  there  like  a  world  in  which 
he  dwelt. 

She  was  drawing  herself  away.     She  took  his  hand. 

"You  must  go,  now,  Dear,"  she  said.  "It  is  late,  you 
know." 

She  smiled  up  into  his  serious  dazed  face. 

"You  will  come  to-morrow  to  dinner,  will  you  not?  .  .  .  w 
Still  he  said  nothing.  He  was  looking  beyond  her. 

"I  am  so  eager  to  have  my  family  really  know  you." 

— 1918. 


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